All or Nothing

How Many Drafts Does It Take Before the Book Is Done?

2010-09-30T07:10:00.000-07:00

Q: Preston, you are known for revising a lot. How do you know when you have revised enough?

A: After I revise many times, my mind begins to worry about typos and other errors I may have missed. So I revise some more.

After I revise many more times, my mind says this is great, this is publishable, excellent! But then after a few days I get anxious about how reviewers like the NY Times or Publishers Weekly or even Black Voices and the Feminist Review will feel about the book. I worry that they may not like it because they think that I am saying something or implying something that I am not. So I revise some more.

After I revise many more times, I read the manuscript and my mind says, the book is saying what it has to say. The book is saying what it needs to say. The book is saying what you want it to say, Preston. You've done it, kiddo!

At this point, I cease to be concerned about reviewers because I am no longer concerned about getting a bad review.

This is not to say that I want a bad review, but that a bad review does not matter because the book has been polished to the point where it is taking a stand. Its message is clear--if you dislike it, you are disliking it because you dislike the message not because I have written it so poorly that you miss the message or that you cannot understand the message. I do not write to be loved, necessarily. I write to be understood.

Good Question

Preston

Jesus Can Help

2010-08-31T04:52:00.000-07:00

Q:

Andre's letter

My friends are talking about their 401Ks and their retirement savings, and I am thinking I can have $170 in the bank if I don't eat lunch this week.

I am thinking that I will have to work well into my 70s.

I am thinking that I am helpless.

I am thinking that the gambling is killing me--has killed me.

Then I meet a friend who changes the way I think.

His name is Jesus.

Jesus says to me: You have a great job paying you 90K a year, which is a salary in the top 10% of American salaries. You have your health. You have some of your youth left, too. These are the things I have given you to help you survive and thrive and you are worrying about the things you have thrown away and lost. Those things are gone, Andre, because you used to be a fool. Do not think about them anymore. Think on these new things--the sun that rose today, the sweet air you breathe, your job that sustains you. Do not weep over spilled milk--pour yourself a new glass of milk and drink it lustily.

And I say to him: But I have so little and it is so hard.

And he says to me: The devil is a liar. You do not have so little. You have a lot. And it is not hard. It is easy.

And I say to him: There is no cure for this addiction. No matter how hard I try to stay away, I keep going back to the casino. No matter how much I have, or how much I will potentially have, the casino will eventually take it away.

And he says to me: The devil is a liar. The casino will not take it away. The casino has never taken it away. You give it away to the casino.

And I say to him: Either way, it is still gone.

And he says to me: Give your life to me for six months. Just six months. And I shall cure you of your addiction. And I shall fix your financial situation. Do you believe that I can?

And I say to him: I believe.

And he says to me: Then give your life to me.

And I give my life to him.

And I gave my life to him for six months.

Six months later, my addiction was gone.

Six months later, my finances were still dreadful but well on their way to being fixed.

Six months later, I wonder why I ever went to a casino in the first place.

Six months later, I counsel other gamblers who seek a way out.

The way out is Jesus.

Try Jesus.

Give your life to him now.

Andre** W*** B******** (Name Withheld)

_______________

A:Okay, Lord knows I cannot argue against any method that proves to be a successful cure for a gambling addiction. If it works for you, then good--and I have met many former gamblers who got back on the right track after they had turned to God. In fact, there are many times when GA reminds me a whole lot of the churching I used to do when I was a kid. In fact, if you replace the words "higher power" with the word "God," then most 12-step programs sorta kinda look like and act like church. I just wonder what happens to the people of other religions (Jews, Hindus, and Muslims, for example) who want to kick the habit.

So yeah, seek Jesus. Seek anybody who can help you beat this thing.

The Monkey on Our Back

2010-07-06T16:07:00.000-07:00

Q:I thoroughly enjoyed the book All or Nothing. I was hesitant at first to read it when I saw what it was about.

I had an ex-husband that took me through the ringer, stealing from me, lying to me etc. as a Gambler will do (I see now from reading this book). I asked God ‘why did Preston pick this book’ and I questioned if I needed to learn something from reading it? Sooooooooooooo, I got into it, and now I’ve got a totally different outlook on addictions in general… I think we all have some sort of addiction; I know mine and I’m working to “get that monkey off my back!”

Thanks for sharing this book with me, it really was an eye opener. I look forward to reading other books written by you.

A: Thank you for these great comments!

As a writer, I feel "worthy" when I sense such a profound grasp of the book and its purpose on the part of my readers.

I don't know about other addicts, but gamblers are some of the nicest people you will ever meet. For many of them, their only flaw is that big, ugly 500 lb monkey on their back. One of the worst things about gambling addiction is how it destroys the lives of these otherwise nice people, and you feel so helpless--like there is nothing you can do to help them.

When I watch movies set in the old west and I see all those casinos, I feel kinda sad for the people who frequented them. It is the same addiction today as it was yesterday.

Only the faces change.

Thanks,

Preston

Are You a Novelist?

2010-07-06T16:00:00.000-07:00

Q: Enjoyed Jesus Boy, but all or Nothing is still my favorite. The book is sad but it cracks me up. Now that you have published Jesus Boy, your fifth novel if we count your self-published work, do you consider yourself still a short-story writer who writes novels or are you now a novelist who writes short-stories?

A: All of the above. LOL. Seriously, I still write a geat deal of short stories every year; in fact, I have two collections that I am hoping to shop soon.

Thanks,

Preston

Any Regrets?

2010-06-16T02:38:00.000-07:00

Q: You wrote a very funny, very powerful book. As a writer, now that ALL OR NOTHING is in print is there anything you would change or do differently if you had to do it all over again?

A: I love the book just the way it is. Maybe there are some deleted scenes that I would put back in. Actually, one of those deleted scenes became the basis for my erotic short story "THREE KISSES" in the collection MAKING THE HOOK-UP (Cleis Press 2010).

I do have one regret, however. I regret that some people I know have read the book and found it so fascinating that they they claim to have started for the first time in their lives to visit casinos and/or experiment with gambling.

This is not good, and this was not my intent.

Did they somehow miss the cautionary tale that was P's life?

Thanks,

Preston

Writer's Block

2010-05-30T05:36:00.000-07:00

Q: Writer's Block . . . blah, blah, blah

A: I've had at least a dozen questions in the last month about writer's block, so it's time to post my official response to it again.

Thanks,

Preston
___________________________

Writer's Block?
The question of writer's block comes up every time I teach a creative writing class, so I'm going to answer it for once and for all.

If you ever get writer's block, do what I do. Go swing a golf club.

Or go watch a movie. Or read a book. Or talk with a friend. Do something. Eat a pizza. Do anything. Just don't worry about writer's block. It goes away eventually, especially since it does not exist in the first place.

Here's the deal. If I commissioned you to write a play about a group of friends united by their love of fried conch, you'd go out and do it because, one, it's a job, and, two, you can write. Piece of cake. Your biggest problem would be doing the research on conch, but the actual writing would be a cinch.

On the other hand, if I commissioned you to go sit down and write a great play and I gave you no further directions, you'd sit on your butt and ponder suicide.

That sitting on your butt and pondering self immolation is what the layman calls writer's block. What do I write? What the heck do I write? My god, I have nothing to write about. My god, nothing is coming out of me. I'm blocked.

No you're not blocked.

Are you deaf? Can you not hear what your inner writer is really saying? I HAVE nothing to write about. Again, there is no such thing as writer's block, but there is such a thing as no assignment.

Writing is a job. Sometimes you have a boss. Sometimes you're self-employed. Either way, you've got lots of work to do. The writer with the boss (journalist, script doctor, ad person, jinglist, jingoist) never has writer's block. Heck, the writer with the boss has too much writing to do.

The self-employed writer, on the other hand, is her own boss, and now I think you see the problem. The self-employed writer has to do TWO jobs: write AND come up with the assignments. When she can't find an assignment, she says she has writer's block. The big lie. That's like a teacher saying he has teacher's block because it's summer and he can't find any kids to teach.

Follow the pen, my brothers and sisters. Follow the pen.

What the self-employed writer has to do, when he can't find an assignment is pick up the pen and write. Just write. It's your job, buddy. So write. Write anything.

"I can't find anything to write about. There is absolutely nothing to write about. The only interesting thing is that story about the dog and the necktie I was putting off to work on over the summer. Actually, that story is pretty good. It kind of reminds me of the way I used to write when . . . ."

And voila! Writer's block is gone, because it never existed.

The other thing you have to remember is that as a self-employed writer, you are not restricted to writing plays--you can write anything. So start following the pen, and maybe it will become an essay, a poem, a page in the journal, some crappy ten pages of ramblings about a mutt and a necktie, a play, a great play, whatever. It doesn't matter because you are your own boss, and thus, the only standard you set for yourself is that you find TRUTH in everything you write.

So . . . if you want to write more and feel less of that thing called writer's block that we both agree does not exist, then you must go out and get yourself a job as a writer (see list above in paragraph 7).

Or give yourself more structure as a
self-employed writer. "I am going to write two pages of dialogue in my new play every day for a month. Then I am going to write a page of synopsis of a future project every night." Then follow your rules. This rigor will work to trick the mind into thinking that you are answering to some boss who requires two pages of this or that each day or she will withhold your paycheck. There are other techniques like that, which you can find in every beginning creative writing textbook.

But, come on, it's all smoke and mirrors, really. You don't need that stuff. Structure. Groannn. Yuck. That's why you're self-employed in the first place! You hate structure. You want the freedom of writing only when it is fresh and original and novel . . . I think the word I'm searching for here is "inspired." You want the freedom to write only when you're inspired. INSPIRATION is your boss. INSPIRATION tells you what assignments to work on.

But sometimes when you sit around waiting for inspiration, you kinda feel like nothing will ever come. You kinda feel like you have writer's block. Here we go again.

Your problem is you want to have your cake and eat it, too. You want brilliant inspiration to flow from your pen, but you're too lazy to treat writing like a job and do it every day so that you get better at it and better at it until every time you pick up your pen the muses obey YOUR commands.

You want to spend months away from writing while you PLAY AT being a writer, in your smoking jacket, at those chic gatherings, where all the cool writers who, like you, have mastered the "writer's look" hang out--and then, finally, when all the parties have ended, you, with your writing muscles flabby from disuse, expect to just sit down and demand brilliance to flow.

Then when, surprise, surprise, it does not come, you claim writer's block.

That's not the way it's done, my brothers and sisters. If you want to be a writer, you'd better pick up that pen.

Every day.

And enjoy the pizza

--Preston L. Allen,

An Insightful Review from Craven Rock at Good Reads.com

2010-05-29T13:47:00.001-07:00

I ran across this review of the book on Good Reads. It was so dead on it gave me chills. It kinda took me back to the zone I was in when I wrote the book. That was a black period in my life.

Thanks,

Preston

____________________________________________________________

Craven Rock from Good Reads April 9, 2010

Great fast-paced story of a compulsive gambler. It reads as quickly as a Palahniuk except the author is able to create a really solid fleshed-out character and doesn't have to rely on fun facts to distract you from that. I must note that the pacing is also the only real comparison that can make between the two authors. I couldn't get over the way that the main character, P., was presented, he does a lot of really repulsive things and risks the welfare of his family (eventually losing them) to feed his habit. But still, the reader is unable to condemn, glorify or pity P.. Allen takes you so deep into the character's head and compulsions that it makes you realize that he is neither a monster, nor a folk hero and you find yourself rooting for him on a basic human level.

New York Times Book Review of Jesus Boy

2010-05-16T19:55:00.000-07:00

Again I am honored by the Gray Lady.

Thanks,

Preston

__________________________________________

The Ecstasy and the Ecstasy

What is it about church that is so damn sexy? The question has bugged me for a long time. An erotic current runs just below the displays of rectitude and purity, despite the hard pews and organ repertory. I suspect it has to do with the congregants’ concerted effort to suppress carnality in favor of distant heavenly rewards. Denying the flesh only makes it throb harder. It’s tricky to defeat one’s own biology, especially when young. It bubbles up during sermons as eyes and thoughts wander. The nape of a boy’s neck sitting two rows up — that modest strip of naked flesh between hairline and suit jacket — can surprisingly arouse.

Sixteen-year-old Elwyn Parker, the protagonist of Preston L. Allen’s novel “Jesus Boy,” is smitten by something just as banal: the glimpse of a twice-pierced, yet unadorned earlobe. The ear belongs to Elaine Morrisohn, 42, a freshly widowed member of his black community’s church, Our Blessed Redeemer Who Walked Upon the Waters. The widow’s earlobes lend credence to rumors that she lived a life of “singular wickedness” before she accepted the Lord. As Elwyn boasts to his high school principal, in this church “we don’t drink, don’t smoke, and our women don’t wear pants.” Jewelry is forbidden, as is coffee, dancing, secular music and most forms of fun.

But these strictures do nothing to repress the congregation’s primal urges, and generations of illicit sex run through this clever and wide-ranging book in which the flesh always triumphs. “Jesus Boy” could well be titled “Jesus People,” for it is crowded with backsliders, hypocrites, horny preachers and shunned “outside” children. All the furtive copulation makes for a general kinkiness that permeates the sanctuary like cheap aftershave. In one case, a couple decides to stop fornicating and get married — only to discover they are distant relatives.

When Elwyn discovers that the girl for whom he’s harbored a long but chaste crush is pregnant, he turns to the pierced widow to explore his own impulses. He visits her just hours after her husband’s burial — she is still in her funeral dress — to ask about the sins she committed in her former life, and whether she ever feels like “yielding.” She does. And she shows him how.

Surely no one does church sexy like Allen. In his worship services, the Holy Ghost descends on women who collapse in the aisle with “spasming legs” and preachers whip their flocks into orgiastic frenzies. The middle-aged widow gazes soulfully at her teenage lover as he strokes the piano during a hymn, “so tight and so fresh and so full of juice,” and calls out an “orgasm shout” that is lost among the holiness shouts.

These people want ecstasy in heaven and on earth. They may lapse into sin, but they can’t shake religion entirely because it is their identity. They quote the Bible — yea, the King James Version — as they beat each other up. They pray before cheating and raise holy hands in the middle of a seduction. One adulterous couple, knowing their congregation will ostracize them if they go public with their liaison, reach an impasse when it comes to finding a new church. As the man ticks off denominations, the woman finds faults with each. She can’t bear to leave her spiritual home of so many years. “Love will conquer all,” her lover finally reassures her. “Love will find a way.”

“Will it?” she responds.

The sinners here take comfort in the notion that “Christ is married to the backslider,” and will forgive their trespasses “seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:22). That’s 490 times, or about one aberration every two months over an 80-year lifespan — not much. Like Ted Haggard-Jim Bakker-Jimmy Swaggart, when their hypocrisy and dirty secrets are revealed, they expect, even demand, forgiveness.

Allen’s writing is by turns solemn and funny. There is a revival scene staged by three ministers — two are African-American, one white — that is hilarious. As the “Rev’run” struts around the stage in a mint-green double-breasted suit berating the audience, the adulterous Rev. McGowan responds with tears, but the white minister leaps to his feet, slings the Rev’run aside and screams gibberish into the microphone before sprinting down the aisle and out the door. The stunned audience “pondered the role of the white minister,” Allen writes, while the two black preachers wondered who he was; neither had invited him. Was the mystery man speaking in tongues, reacting to the Rev’run’s emotional appeal or exhibiting psychosis? The reader must decide if his behavior is any more schizoid than that of the zealous sinners or sinning zealots who people this book.

Allen’s previous books include “All or Nothing,” a novel about gambling addiction (as this one is about religious addiction) and “Churchboys and Other Sinners,” a story collection in which Elwyn is a recurring character. It would be easy for “Jesus Boy” to become fluffy satire, but Allen keeps his characters real. Elwyn, who once aspired to become “a beacon unto the faithful,” becomes something much more profane. His faith wanes, but he still slips into the pews now and again to get his fix by singing the hymns he’s known since boyhood. He leaves before the sermon begins. There is nostalgia for the simple morality, the fellowship, the promise of celestial rewards. Old habits are hard to break.

by Julia Scheeres

I Am Still Reeling

2010-03-30T14:53:00.001-07:00

I am still reeling from the deleted computer files of January 31, 2010 and now something else is happening.

After working on a novel at home for like a week, I emailed it to my AOL account and my GMAIL account. When I went to download the AOL version at work, the attachment disappeared. Weird, I said. Then I went into my GMAIL account to download that version. The file opened fine, but the attachment disappeared.

It was there one second--gone the next.

Then when I went back to GMAIL, the file now appeared as though I had sent it without an attachment.

Weird.

What the heck is going on? Is this some kind of prank virus? It deletes the attachment just before you download it and then it pretends that there was never an attachment in the first place.

Too weird.

I'm going to try it again tonight.

Thanks,

Preston

Garrison Keillor and Stephen King

2010-02-05T18:09:00.000-08:00

In one of his books (LAKE WOBEGON DAYS, I think), Garrison Keillor writes about losing during a journey on a train the only existing manuscript of the greatest novel he ever wrote.

Stephen King, in the novel (and film version) of MISERY, has a protagonist whose peculiar idiosyncrasy is that he never makes a back up copy of a completed manuscript; and then, of course, he gets to watch, in misery, ahem, as the sadistic Annie Wilkes destroys that solitary copy of his greatest work before his very eyes.

Indeed, it was a common fear among writers of yore that one might lose the lone existing copy of one's magnum opus.

Ah, the tragedy.

Subsequently, one would sorely tax one's brain to produce a replacement version that would always feel inferior compared to the memory of the brilliantly penned and tragically lost epic. Even if the replacement work when published garnered bucket loads of acclaim and awards, one would always feel that it was not really nearly as good as the one that was lost.

But that was back in the day of pencil and pen and that marvel of technological antiquity, the typewriter. Writers today live in the modern age--the age of the computer with its revolutionary abilities to print flawless copy on a laser printer, send said copy to various remote regions for safekeeping via email, and create infinite back up duplicates of said copy on the computer's hard drive and whatever portable external devices one sees fit to fill with the precious and brilliant literary masterpiece.

That being said, this weekend past I nevertheless lost a precious bit of writing.

I had been laboring with this manuscript for nigh unto three years when finally last Sunday morning around 5:00 a.m. I awakened to find that I knew how to make the story work.

So I rose from my bed, opened the most recent draft of the story, and began to type. I typed until about five in the afternoon--12 solid hours of corrections, additions, cuts, and tweaks.

Just before I took a break, for about an hour I scrolled through the work, smiling as I appraised some of the changes I had made and the new passages I had written.

I saved the document. Then I took a ten minute break.

When I returned to the computer, I noticed immediately that there was no evidence of the manuscript on the desktop, where I had saved it. Not a problem.

I clicked on "recent documents" in the menu, and there was the file. Let's call it "Cop Novel" for sake of clarity.

When I clicked on "Cop Novel," a message came up that read "extension not found," or something like that.

I was confused. Where was this novel that I had worked on all morning? Where were all of the edits, corrections, cuts, and additions I had made?

The only thing that I could find was the old version of "Cop Novel" before my edits of the past half day.

I tried everything that I knew how to do to recover the document, but I produced no results save that annoying message. "Extension not found."

A week of futility followed.

I contacted a friend who always bails me out of computer trouble and he suggested I try the "System Restore" command.

That didn't work.

Another friend loaned me a copy of something called "Undelete-Plus."

That didn't work.

Everyone I contacted suggested something to try, but everything I tried failed.

Nothing worked.

Finally, I decided that my only way out of this is to open the old draft of the novel (before the edits), and wrack my brain to produce a replacement version that will no doubt feel inferior compared to that brilliantly penned and tragically unrecoverable epic I recall with such fondness and awe.

Thanks,

Preston

p.s.

In a way, this might be a good thing. I recall that when I was in college, one of my composition professors had us do an exercise that involved our writing a set of essays, reading them out loud, commenting on them, and then her collecting them and throwing them unceremoniously into the trash. "This weekend," she said, "I want you to write the essay again, but make it better than you did last time."

We groaned as we left the class, but the essays we turned in the next week were brilliant compared to the ones the professor had tossed in the trash. We know this because she hadn't actually discarded them, but had waited until we left the room before retrieving them.

Ultimately she gave back both papers so that we could see the difference between our weak (though beloved) discarded draft, and the much improved draft that we had crafted from memory.

I am heartened by the memory of this exercise.

My Supernatural Novel

2010-01-29T06:15:00.000-08:00

I have four questions, actually.

Thanks,

H.W.

Q: I am writing a novel (of a supernatural nature), and I was wondering whether I should use a real place as the setting, or continue with the made-up realistic city that I have been using since the start of the book. I’ve read in various places that it’s best to use a real place, but should I really do that? I created the city in order to create a problem for my protagonist, who is supposed to be struggling a bit with racial issues in her community. She herself is of two ethnicities, Caucasian and Hispanic, and I thought it might be interesting to have her struggle with this fact in her high school and her community. I didn't want to set it in the past, and I didn't want it to be in the countryside or something. So, should I pull a J.K. Rowling, and use my imaginary place?

A: One of the great things about being a writer is that we get to make up worlds that do not but maybe should exist, and truth be told, whether we set our story in a made-up world or right down here on on our good old terra firma, we are creating a new world. At the beginning of my first novel, HOOCHIE MAMA, which is set in Opa-Locka, I posted the disclaimer that pretty much all writers post: "This is a work of fiction and it is set in the Opa-Locka of the writer's mind." You are an extremely creative and inventive person and I, personally, would love to see a book of yours set in a world you created. I think you would be good at it, and furthermore, you would be able to make controversial comments about this present world more honestly through the disguise of that artificial world. Sort of like Gulliver's Travels.

Q: Would it be a good idea to end the novel with a cliff hanger as Tolkien does in The Hobbit?

A: No. Not unless you have a real good reason to do so. People want to read a novel that is a complete work. A sequel is one thing, but to leave parts of it unwritten so that we are forced to buy a second book just to see how the first book ends is blatantly unfair. James Patterson did that in ROSES ARE RED and its follow up book VIOLETS ARE BLUE. I felt deceived as a reader. It felt like a sneaky way to get me to buy two short, incomplete novels, instead of one long complete novel. Furthermore, I don't understand your example. THE HOBBIT is a complete novel and has no cliff hanger at the end. Bilbo has his resolution. The book is done--fini-complete--but the LORD OF THE RINGS: THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RINGS is a new story about Bilbo's nephew Frodo and his friends.

Q: Is it okay to stray a bit from traditional lore about supernatural things like werewolves and vampires?

A: By all means, please do. When you use werewolves and vampires, feel free to reinvent the wheel. You don't have to play by rules made up by Anne Rice or Stephenie Meyer or, for that matter, Bram Stoker. I have read books and seen movies about vampires with guns, vampires who live next door, a vampire who is a mafia godfather (who bites all of his underbosses so that he can create an indestructible mafia family), and in a recent film a world run by vampires, in which the humans are the monsters (sort of).

Q: Because it is geared toward a tween/teenage audience, I would like to depict high school as it really is, bullies, taunting, the whole nine yards. Is that okay, or should I make it so that some do not have to relive the horrors of high school?

A: I think the bullying and the taunting will make it more interesting, especially since I get the sense that that is one of the issues you want to explore in the book. Why not make the high school experience as real as possible and then set down a vampire or werewolf or some other supernatural creation of yours in it. Go back and read Stephen King's CHRISTINE and note how real and painful that high school experience is. Then suddenly, a '57 Chevy comes to life.

Good hearing from you H.W., and keep on writing. You've got talent and I can't wait to see what you produce.

Thanks,

Preston

Women in Their Winter Boots

2010-01-07T14:12:00.000-08:00

What I like most about South Florida is the women in their winter boots.

When the temperature dips into the sixties--I swear, the sixties--out come the boots.

I am sure this does not happen anywhere else in the country. But down here once the mercury dips to sixty--watch out!

It's ridiculous. Half of them are wearing midriff revealing tops, short-shorts, and winter boots. It's a weird juxtaposition, let me tell you.

Someone should do a photo blog of South Florida women wearing their winter boots in sixty degree weather with the palm trees, the ocean, and Canadian tourists in swimsuits and bikinis in the background. The blog would be sort of like Irwin Shaw's "Girls in Their Summer Dresses," except it would be about boots.

But the boots are quite stylish.

The boots look good without snow.

Thanks,

Preston

I'm Cold

2010-01-07T13:54:00.000-08:00

I got up Wednesday morning, and I was cold. Cold!

I have been wearing suits all week because they are the warmest garments I own. Sudden realization. I do not own any winter clothes.

Ponder this: go out and buy a good winter coat and hat for the one or two times in three years that you will wear them. No way, said I.

But the arctic blasts, as they call them, continued to blow and Wednesday morning, in my suit and hat, I was cold. Cold like a South Floridian in 30 degree weather.

Scroll back to Monday. I forgot my watch at home so I took a break from the office and went to the drugstore--hoping to find a cheap timepiece to get me through the day. "No luck," said the manager. "All of our watches were sold as stocking stuffers during Christmas. It's not an item we regularly carry. We might have some in the store again around Valentine's."

No luck with the watch. Not a problem.

And the store was full of scarves, gloves, portable heaters, and warm winter hats. How toasty. LOL.

Oh, I laughed. Yes, I did. Floridians just cannot take a little chill, tittered I. They're selling all of this stuff for 50 degree weather. Hahaha. LOL. Hahaha, laughed I. Oh and by the way, I don't even need a watch. I forgot that I can just use the clock on my iPhone. Hahaha. LOL. Hahaha, I laughed on. Merry, merry me, who flinches not in the chill of 50 degree weather. I laugh out loud at your 50 degrees. Bring it on!

Here it is Thursday morning. I am in the drugstore again. All of the warm clothes have been sold. They are completely out of warm winter caps. They are completely out of portable heaters.

Who's laughing now, funny man?

Not me. I'm freezing. Thirty degrees is too much even for me.

My prospects for survival are not good. They say the chill is going to last through the weekend and I am running out of suits. I think I'm going to head over to the Burlington Coat Factory and pray they've got something warm and toasty in my size.

Thanks,

Preston

Memorable Moments in the Casino

2009-12-28T16:14:00.000-08:00

Q: Wow! You really blasted that guy. But you speak truth. I found your novel to be realistic, well written, and touching, but the quality I like most about it is its humor. Besides the things you wrote about in the book, what are some of your most memorable moments from being a gambler in a casino? You are the real deal.

A: Thanks for the question, though I do not think I fully understand it. Are you asking what my most memorable moments were, like my most memorable, or biggest, wins, or are you asking about the most memorable things I've witnessed?

At any rate here goes.

I saw a crowd gathered around a car in the parking lot one night as I was leaving the casino. There was a guy sprawled out under the car--I think it was a truck or an SUV--I think maybe he was trying to get himself killed. Maybe he had lost too much money that night. Maybe he was just drunk. The police came and dragged him out and arrested him.

I saw a crowd gathered around a car in the parking lot one afternoon as I was leaving the casino. There was a three or four foot alligator under the car (this is Florida--the casino is sort of in a swamp). People were just kind of gathered around looking at the alligator. This incident is not related to the one above.

I saw an elderly couple (I think they were Canadian tourists) hit all four screens on MAX BET and they had no idea what they were doing. They played all four screens as "000000"--they could not figure how to get the machine off zero--they could not figure out how to lower the bet--and the dang thing hit! Totally unfair to the rest of us poor bastards.

I saw a guy begging money from friends to play the Super 7 machine--a game I do not play and do not really understand--and when he had gotten the money together he sat down and hit $124,000 on the first push.

I saw a guy have a heart attack at the poker table. When he came back to the casino like two months later, they gave him the $22.18 stack that he had left at the table.

I was at the table when a guy hit back to back royal flushes. Amazing! A-freaking-mazing! I don't think that has ever happened anywhere before on the planet earth! Amazing! The jackpots were worth like $20,000 combined. The winner tipped the dealer like ten dollars. Ten measly freaking dollars. You could see it on the dealer's face--disappointment. What can you do? Some players are cheap bastards.

An Asian guy we used to call "Bruce Lee" because he did really look like Bruce Lee was so broke from gambling and losing that he didn't even own a car and had to walk to the casino everyday to play poker with us. (I think I heard somewhere that because of his gambling, he had had his car reposessed.) Anyway, he got lucky one day and hit a Royal Flush with a big $30,000 jackpot. The first thing Bruce Lee did? He got up and went across the street to a buy-here-pay-here lot and paid $4000 cash for a little Hyundai. Then he came back to the table and played all night. Now he had a car. No more walking for Bruce Lee.

This guy we all knew came in and blew his mortgage. He was on his way to pay his mortgage, which was already like three months in arears, and he stopped into the casino and blew it. Now he's crying and moaning and begging us. Well, we're all gamblers. We know how it is. So we pitch together and the most we come up with is like a couple hundred dollars. He needs at least $1500 for his mortgage. It's not that we're cheap. He's begging from us at a bad time. We're all on like a bad streak. So the only thing he can do is take the couple hundred we gave him and try his luck in the machines again. So he plays the machines and he hits $1500 in a little jackpot. Thank God. Now he can pay his mortgage. While he's waiting to be cashed out. He puts twenty dollars in the machine right next to his and hits again. $500! While he's waiting to be cashed out of these first two lucky machines, he puts some money in the next machine in line and hits again! Like $500-600! Amazing. Three machines in a row! When they finally cashed him out, he was about to put some money in another machine, and we were all watching anxiously to see what was going to happen, some of us chanting, "Lucky money never loses. Lucky money never loses," and he stops. He paid us all back and left. He said, "I better go pay my mortgage while I can." We were all shocked. Shocked! We were all grumbling, "What an idiot! How can he leave when he's hot? What a freaking idiot!"

We're playing poker one day at the casino. The Hold'em bad beat jackpot is up to like $160,000--which means the bad beat loser gets $80,000, the bad beat winner gets half that at $40,000, not bad, and the other six players at the table split the final $40,000, which is close to like 7 grand each--not bad for just sitting at the table. We are playing at the table for like 12 hours straight, hoping for that bad beat to hit. Suddenly the pit boss announces "BAD BEAT!" Shouts of joy go up. We look around--our table didn't win, so we want to see which table in the casino, which lucky players, hit the bad beat. Would you believe it was freaking world famous linebacker from the freaking Miami Dolphins who won the bad beat? And the table was full of really big guys who looked like maybe his Dolphins teammates. Lucky bastards. A table full of professional football players. They're already rich and now they win the bad beat. A-freaking-mazing!

There's lots more, but I can't go on. That last one really got to me. I'm not saying Zack and the boys didn't deserve the money, but the rich just keep getting richer. The rest of us just donate.

Thanks,

Preston

How Does One Stop Gambling?

2009-12-26T22:43:00.000-08:00

Q: Loved your book. If there is one thing you know, Mr. Allen, it is the gambling world. Your book brought many smiles to my face and it also made me face a tragic reality. I am hooked and maybe there is no way out for me. This gambling thing is ruining my life. Believe it or not, I am the kind of guy you wrote about who will borrow money to gamble and leave his bills unpaid. I went for three weeks without gas to heat my home because I could not afford to pay the gas man. I froze my butt off! The funny thing is that minutes before I left the casino that last time, I had won enough money to pay the gas man to turn my gas back on AND TO BUY FOOD. Sadly, like most gamblers, I kept right on playing and soon had LOST IT ALL BACK. I drove back home to a freezing house. I froze for three weeks. I didn't even have enough money to buy one of those portable electric heaters. Every night as I lay bundled up in 300 blankets, I cursed myself for being so stupid. Why couldn't I just leave when I was winning? Why couldn't I just get up and leave? The funny thing, the sick thing, the really sick thing, is that during those three weeks of cold, I was twice able to borrow money from friends to turn back on the gas and what did I do with the money they loaned me? I went to the casino and lost it all. During those three weeks of cold I thought about a lot of things under those blankets. Like my life savings, which was all gone, like the love of my life, who had dumped me, and most of all how pathetic I was under all of those blankets thinking about how angry I was that I could not gamble. That's right. Despite all that I had lost, the main thing on my mind was to gamble some more. I had lost over a hundred thousand dollars in life savings. I had blown, as usual, that month's pay check (I get paid once a month). I was freezing my butt off in the richest country in the world. Enough was enough. Since that time I have been strong enough to fight it. In the last 30 days I have only visited the casino like twice and have had the strength to get up and leave with money in my pocket when I started losing. It is hard, but I am fighting it. I think I can beat this thing. Memories of the cold are hard to forget.

A: Thanks for the letter. Sorry that I had to edit it. I loved it, but there were a few granmmar issues and also I don't think it is wise to put your personal information out there like that.

I am glad that you are fighting it, and I wish you luck. But in the interest of the uninformed who are reading this post I have to be blunt with you:

You are full of crap and you will fail.

Your strength alone is not enough to stop you from gambling. Your strength? LOL. You are a punk. You blew a hundred grand after working for God knows how many years at a job you probably hate and just because you grew icicles on your nose, you think you are strong enough to beat gambling? Wake up, Frosty the Snowman! You are in denial, and denial is going to suck another hundred grand out of you if it doesn't kill you first. Are you a casual gambler? No. You are a GAMBLER in all CAPS. If you are a gambler, there is no in between. The casino is there to do one of two things: Take ALL of your money, or convince you to commit suicide.

You were not strong enough to stop when you were down ten grand. You were not strong enough to stop when you were down 50 grand. You were not strong enough to stop when you had blown 100 hundred grand (and probably blown through all of your credit cards) and were living paycheck to paycheck. Now you actually believe you are strong enough to stop after a few cold nights? Brother, the nights are always cold for a gambler.

If you want to show strength, pick up the phone and dial 1-888-ADMIT IT. Join GA now! These people can help you--if you are ready to be helped and not just talking crap, like I know that you are.

If you want to show strength go back to the casino and speak to the floor man or the pit boss. Tell them these words: I WANT YOU TO BAN ME FROM THIS CASINO FOR LIFE.

They will do it, and you will not be allowed to go back there.

You, my friend, have had a chilly winter, but you have not hit rock bottom yet. But you will one day soon, and it is going to make your chilly winter seem like a warm day at the beach.

Stop talking crap and get help. You cannot do it alone.

None of us can.

One does not stop gambling by going to the casino! Duh!

Great letter, though.

Thanks,

Preston

Where Do Gamblers Get Money to Gamble?

2009-12-26T22:02:00.000-08:00

Q: I gave your book, ALL OR NOTHING, to my girlfriend who enjoyed it too but asked, "Where do gamblers get all of that money to spend gambling?"

A: LOL. Good question. The answer is that they beg, borrow, and steal. I have met gamblers who liquidate their life savings, life insurance, 401Ks, credit cards, college savings funds; I know gamblers who sell their own blood, their fancy cars, rent out rooms in their houses, take out second and third mortgages, blow their inheritances and much more than that. By the way, these are the non-criminal gamblers.

We have all heard stories about the embezzlers and prostitutes of the gambling world--at least the ones who get caught.

But think about a woman or man who remains with a wealthy partner, whom they hate, because he/she provides them with money to gamble. Think about people who stay at a job they hate because it provides them with money (or the flexibility of hours) to gamble.

I know of bus drivers (obviously) who gamble. I know of police officers who gamble. I know of physicians who gamble. And when I say "gamble," I mean that they are addicted gamblers I have met regularly in the casinos and in GA.

Where do they get the money to gamble? Lots of places, but mostly from other people. In fact, if gamblers weren't addicted to gambling, they would make great fundraisers.

I know of a gambler who was down 2k after a night at the machines. He had the usual complaints--he was not going to be able to pay his water bill, he was not going to be able to pay his electricity, he was not going to be able to buy groceries, and so on and so forth. So a few of us got together and helped him out a little bit, and then he contacted some other friends of his, and within a few hours he had collected more than the 2k he needed to pay all of his bills. The next night at the casino he blew another 2k or so and the whole process of begging started over again. The only thing he didn't pay was his bills. His electricity was cut off for like the millionth time and his water too, but he had borrowed 2k to gamble with.

Thanks,

Preston

Black History

2009-12-23T10:41:00.000-08:00

Q: You are a pretty good writer. I enjoyed your novel ALL OR NOTHING. It is the best book I have ever read seriously without wanting to put it down. As an African American reader to an African American writer, I am wondering if you are ever going to write something that gives back to the community. Are you ever going to write a book about black history that can be used in schools?

A: Thanks for the kind words about my book.

Every writer has a genre that he/she writes in. At this moment I am not writing historical fiction. That is not my genre. However, I do address many cultural and social issues in my work, and race relations in America is one that shows up from time to time because of my own personal experience with it. Examples of it can be found even in my erotica (See "Southernmost Triangle" in WANDERLUST: EROTIC BLACK TRAVEL TALES edited by Carol Taylor).

Or are you asking whether or not I am going to write a biographical work on, say, Medgar Evers, Martin Luther King, Sojourner Truth? To answer that question let me say that at this time I am writing fiction exclusively--but I do have some projects in mind for the future.

Thanks,

Preston

Are You Gay?

2009-12-23T07:25:00.000-08:00

Q: I am a woman who has read all of your novels and all of your erotica and most I think of your published short stories. Are you gay or bisexual? I'm not trying to offend you. I'm complimenting you I think. Some of the things you say and your attitude remind me of a gay friend I have and he is very humorous. If you do not publish this question or answer it on your blog I will understand.

A: I am not gay or bisexual.

In real life, no one ever asks me this question (because I am too macho!). But on the blog, I have been asked this question by readers at least 6 times. Maybe because gays and lesbians show up in my work with some frequency? Because I have many gay and bisexual friends? I do not know.

So there! I have answered the question. I am not gay. No, I am not hiding any sexual secrets. No, I am not repressing any hidden desires. I like women--a lot. Too much.

LOL. Thanks for asking.

Preston

Jesus Boy

2009-12-22T05:35:00.000-08:00

Q: When is your next book due out and what are you working on after that?

A: The next book is called JESUS BOY and it is due out April 1, 2010. I am going to create a blogsite specifically for the book as soon as the cover and etc. are confirmed.

Well, as you know, there are a couple of books that I was born to write: A book about gambling, a book about church, a book about car salesmen, and a book about fathers. I took care of the gambling theme in ALL OR NOTHING. I did my church book in JESUS BOY. I have two more to go, car salesmen and fathers.

Two down.

Two to go.

In the meantime, I have completed a mystery/thriller about a female cop who is abducted by a serial rapist, a fantasy novel set in a world in which humans are pets, and two short story collections: one that pays homage to the work of Edgar Allan Poe, and another that pays homage to depression era gangsters John Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, and Baby Face Nelson.

Thanks,

Preston

Nostalgia Equals 20 to 30 Years Ago

2009-09-13T16:39:00.000-07:00

Q: I have written a novel loosely based on my life, much of it set in the sixties through eighties. My agent has tried and failed to make a book deal she says because the publishers feel that the book needs to be updated a few decades and set in the eighties through the millenium. They want it to be more current, especially since the focus of the book is not really about those decades, but about my life and family events, which just happened to occur during those decades.

My agent agrees with the publishers who have rejected the book; thus, I am in the process of re-writing it to be more current, although with some misgivings. What do you think? Should I set my book in recent decades to make it more current?

A: If you have a publisher who is willing to make a deal based on an update and the update does not ruin the book, then go for it.

It seems that most publishers want novels that are set in present day unless there is a very good reason for setting them in the past. This makes sense, I suppose, because readers are more likely to buy books that are current.

Nostalgia does sell, however. These days people seem to be interested in the seventies and eighties. The sixties are still popular. Every now and then we get a few books set in the fifties and forties, but not so much anymore. Books about the fifties were very popular back in the seventies and eighties.

Here's something I was told by a writer friend. I do not know if this is a hard and fast rule (and I myself do not follow it)--but here it is; if the year itself is irrelevant to the plot, always set your book in present day: and if you must set it in the past, set it 20-30 years ago.

He argued that setting it 20-30 years ago will attract the "nostalgia" readers. The most active book buyers, those in the 30 to 50 age range, will be attracted to a book set during the good old days when they were teenagers and young adults.

Ten years ago is too recent--you might as well update it and make it present day. The people who were teens to young adults ten years ago, are still young adults, and as they are still getting their careers in order they are not yet in that place where they will yearn for the good old days.

Forty, fifty and more years ago is too far in the past--you might as well update it and make it present day. The people who were teens to young adults forty and more years ago have most likely already fallen in love with cherished classics (and specific writers) who feed their need for nostalgia--it will be hard to supplant them.

I do not know if I agree with this, and I am still mulling it over, but there you have it.

Thanks,

Preston

Should I Show It to My Friends?

2009-09-05T21:29:00.000-07:00

Q: I’m currently writing a novel, and I asked my close friends to read it and let me know what I could do to improve it.

1. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I would like for this novel to appeal to teenagers and adults, without being too graphic, and have some elements of realism to the characters and plot (even though it is a paranormal novel).

2. Any suggestions?

Thanks,

H.D.

A:

1. Finish writing the book before you show it to anyone.

2. Join a writers group or take a creative writing class.

3. Read as many books in that chosen genre as you can.

4. Don't write down to children and teenagers. They will see your con coming from a mile away.

Thanks,

Preston

I Have Ideas But Not Enough Time to Write a Novel

2009-07-19T06:15:00.001-07:00

Q: Hi Preston L. Allen. May I call you Preston? Many years ago I was in an MFA program but left it after a year to get married and start a family. I have since published several short stories in literary magazines and have a pretty good idea for a novel, but with the time constraints on my life due to full time employment and raising two children I find it impossible timewise to complete such a lengthy prose work. After two years of working on the book, I have a completed outline and a mere thirty pages of prose. I read your blog on "getting up early in the morning and working on the book every day." That does not work for me. I teach high school English and am too tired to get up so early. I need more time. Writing takes time. Where can I find more time?

Thanks, J.O.

A: At the rate you are going, in twenty years you will be on page 300 and the book will be completed. And it will probably be a great book because of all of the time you spent working and thinking about it. It will be your masterpiece. Your Magnum Opus. A book like that is worth waiting twenty years for.

On the other hand, you should clean out your emails if you want motivation to write your novel.

What?

Clean out your emails.

This week my English Department email account started bouncing back emails. The account was over full. I was way beyond the limit. I had over 3000 emails that needed to be deleted.

SO I began to delete old emails, but since some of them were important things that I needed to keep for a variety of personal and work related reasons--I opened a WORD file and began cutting and pasting the old emails into it.

I only went back a year and a half, which was enough to free up space so that I could use the system again.

A year and a half . . .

I only went back a year and a half--and I filled a WORD file that is 390 pages long, a page count that is longer than any novel I have ever published.

In other words, I wrote, in one year and a half, at least enough email prose to fill a good sized novel . . .

How much email prose have you written?

How much Myspace prose?

How much Facebook?

How Much Text Message?

How Much Twitter?

Maybe you aren't the kind of writer to rise at 5 a.m. But are you the kind who will email yourself, each day, a few paragraphs from your novel in progress?

The key is to steal some writing time from time that you ALREADY spend writing.

Your new novel will be ready in a year and a half.

I hope this helps, J.O.

Thanks,

Preston

What part of writing do you hate

2009-07-14T18:44:00.000-07:00

Q: What part of the writing process do you hate?

A: There is no part of the writing process that I hate. I love to think about stories. I love to write stories, even long ones like novels, that may take years to complete. I love revising stories, even long ones like novels, that may take years to revise. I like doing research for stories I plan to write. I like workshopping stories with my friends who are writers and readers. I like getting feedback about my stories, even negative feedback. I like giving feedback. I like working with editors.

If there is a part of the process that I like least it would have to be trying to read my handwritten comments and fixes, and transfer them from the page to the computer. In truth, I do not dislike that part of it either, per se, but it has become more difficult because of my ever weakening vision.

Thanks,

Preston

Rejection

2009-07-14T18:27:00.000-07:00

Q: How do you deal with negative criticism as a writer? Does it hurt?

A: Now, I have been fortunate. Knock on wood. Most of my criticism has been positive.

To answer your question, yes, negative criticism hurts. But it is a part of being a writer, and an important part. It keeps you on your toes. It keeps you performing at a high level. It keeps you from getting comfortable and slacking off.

Furthermore, you have to put it all into perspective. We writers get rejected a lot. Rejections hurt a lot, and we get rejected a lot. So when we are reading a piece of negative criticism of something of ours that was accepted by a publisher and is published and in print, it is but one defeat after a string of many successes. In short, it is a victory to find oneself in a position to even be the object of negative criticism.

And here is something else, criticism, any kind of criticism, means that you are being read, and that is not a bad thing.

Thanks,

Preston

I want to Write

2009-07-14T18:17:00.000-07:00

Q: I want to write but my grammar is not so good. Should I give up?

A: What? I can't answer that question. There is too much about you that I do not know. You want to write what? Poetry? Stories? A novel? Essays? Have you written anything substantial? Has anyone (aside from your family and close friends) read it?

I'm not sure what you're asking, but if you want to fix your grammar, sign up for a grammar class with the public schools or with a local community college. You might also pick up Strunk and White's THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE or some other book on grammar.

Worse than having a weakness in grammar, if you plan on becoming a writer, is having a weakness in reading. . . do you read a lot? Have you read a lot? If not, go out and start buying novels, short story collections, poetry collections, or collections and books in whatever genre of writing you aspire to work in.

I hope this helps.

Thanks,

Preston

Visit Screwiowa.com

2009-06-20T15:19:00.001-07:00

Hey folks--here's a great new website to visit screwiowa.com.

My friend Nina Romano is doing some exciting things on that site. Plus there's a nice little piece I wrote about the craft of writing.

Thanks,

Preston

Let's Say P was real . . .

2009-06-18T08:05:00.000-07:00

Q: In your novel ALL OR NOTHING, Let's say P was real. How would his family feel about his nearly confessional novel being published? How do writers and people associated with them cope with the truth in novels? Do the living's feelings and dignity indirectly censor some of the things the author planned to write?

Thanks,

Alexander

A: Good question.

First, go read John Dufresne's excellent creative writing text called THE LIE THAT TELLS A TRUTH, or just sit there and ponder the meaning of that title.

Second, maybe I need to stick my motto on my door and on my bumper sticker so that people will know who I am: "My name is writer. I am the most honest liar you will ever meet."

Third, I would hate it if my family wrote a novel with me in it because they don't know how to lie; therefore, they would depend too much on the truth and end up hurting my feelings and my dignity with their blunt, clumsy, insincere, dishonest honesty.

On the other hand, big fat liar that I am, I write about THEM all the time, and they don't even notice.

One of my great private joys is that the cousin about whom I based "IS RANDY ROBERTS THERE?" (found in CHURCHBOYS AND OTHER SINNERS, Carolina Wren Press, 2003) is a great fan of the story and has no idea it's based on her. Tehehe.

I come from a very close-knit family, even though sometimes we hate each other, and thus there are some books that I cannot (and will not) write until certain people are dead or until I find a lie big enough to conceal their identities while at the same time revealing the truth the work aims to explore.

Fourth, it is indeed a long list of writers who have created works of fiction that have offended the friends and family members who read it and, shock of shocks, who found themselves unfavorably portrayed in it.

Fifth, before my mother passed, she read the manuscript of my forthcoming novel, JESUS BOY, which she enjoyed--I never saw her laugh so much in my life. But she did ask over and over, "Who is Sister Morrisohn in real life? Is it Sister Slade? Sister Bynes? Boy, did Sister Bynes seduce you? I cannot believe that that grown woman make a move on my child!"

And I'm like, "No, ma. I did not sleep with Sister Bynes, OR Sister Slade. This is a fiction, ma. Hahaha."

But you could see in her eyes she didn't believe me. My mother went to her grave wondering which respected sister at our church seduced me when I was 15 or 16.

Sixth, I will tell you again that my novel BOUNCE is autobiographical--just as autobiographical as JESUS BOY and ALL OR NOTHING. The protagonist of BOUNCE is a short, sexy Domincan woman named Cindique. Go figure.

Seventh, I am a gambler and P is a gambler. Thus, I know gambling. It makes me the ideal person to tell P's story, whoever he is. Is P me? Yes, in many ways, but in many ways not.

I was a church boy and Elwyn (from JESUS BOY) is a church boy. Thus, I know church boys. It makes me the ideal person to tell Elwyn's story. Is Elwyn me? Yes, in many ways, but in many ways not.

Eighth, in my next novel, THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ALEXANDER, I am going to tell the story of my former student Alexander Cherin . . .

Is Alexander me? In that book. he will be.

Thanks,

Preston

MY BAD

2009-05-29T18:24:00.000-07:00

A: MY BAD

I just got an email that says I misunderstood the last question. The emailer was asking which of the erotic stories that I have written are my favorites.

Okay, thanks for the question, now that I understand it.

In Carol Taylor's BROWN SUGAR series, I would have to say that NADINE'S HUSBAND is my favorite. It is well written, touching, and STORY is the most important element in it. It set the standard for all four stories I wrote for that series. STORY comes first--all other elements, including sex, must flow logically and smoothly from the story.

I also like SOUTHERNMOST TRIANGLE, which shows up in WANDERLUST (edited by Carol Taylor) because that is the first time in any of my stories (published or unpublished) I wrote a threesome scene that worked, in my opinion, because it flowed from STORY.

In my novel BOUNCE, which is an unabashedly erotic novel, the Boo-Hoo scene is tops as far as I am concerned.

In COME WITH ME, SHEBA, Chapter 19 works for me as a culmination of erotic energy--Chapter 19 is so hot I had to write it in parts. As I recall, Chapter 19 has 6 parts.

I hope that answers your question.

Thanks,

Preston

Erotica

2009-05-29T16:39:00.000-07:00

Q: Two questions. First, you say that sex is one of those things you do not talk about along with religion and politics, but I have read with pleasure your erotic stories. What's up with that? Second, What are your favorite erotic stories?

A: I do not discuss sex, religion, or politics in public--it makes too many enemies and it usually ends up with one party espousing a belief rather than defending an argument. I do not talk about these topics but I do write about them. A lot!

The stories that I found to be so hot that I started writing my own erotica are listed here in no particular order and I apologize in advance for not including in some instances the author's name.

Michael Hemmingson's THE DRESS and THE NAUGHTY YARD. Sweet Jheezus, I still re-read these two lengthy (novella length) stories from time to time for inspiration to write my own pieces. Hemmingson is a very dirty boy with a wicked sense of humor and an even wickeder way with describing bedroom delights. I read most of his stuff in Maxim Jakubowski's MAMMOTH BOOK OF SEX anthologies. He's got about ten of them out there--and they're all full of good sex writing.

A short story called PG DIARY is also great for sexual inspiration on the part of yours truly. I apologize because I cannot recall the author's name without consulting the book which I do not have here in front of me, though she and I communicated via email for a while after her story came out in one of Suzy Bright's anual anthologies: I think it was Best Erotica of 2000? 2001? It's a great story about two pregnant girls who are roommates at one of those special schools for wayward teens. The story is sweet and sexy and poignant and it rings of truth.

In that same Suzy Bright anthology there was a story called SWEATING PROFUSELY IN MERIDIA that was DAYUMMM hot too. I need to go find that book and give you the names of the writers.

I found the book! It is Susie (not Suzy) Bright's THE BEST AMERICAN EROTICA 1994. The author of PG DIARY is Linda Hooper, and Carol Queen is the author of SWEATING PROFUSELY.

In my hand I also have Susie Bright's 2001 edition of that collection and there is a story called THE MAN WHO ATE WOMEN by Damian Grace. DAYUMM. This one took me back to college life and its wayward ways.

REASONS NOT TO GO TO FT. LAUDERDALE by Liz Clarke (clark?) was in an anthology I lost but need to re-purchase called SLOW HAND by Michele B. Slung. I used to read that one a lot for inspiration. There is another story that nailed college sex antics in the 80s.

Brian Fawcet (Fawcett?) wrote a story called Cuckoo in Maxim Jakubowski's MAMMOTH BOOK OF INTERNATIONAL EROTICA. If you want to learn how to write well and earnestly about threesomes, this is a good story to begin with. Very erotic. Very meaningful.

Marge Piercy's novel THREE WOMEN has a DAYUMM good section in it that I have seen anthologized somewhere. Or you can just buy her novel. It's the scene when Elena and Evan invite the new kid Chad into their sex games. Another good section to study to learn how to write threesomes earnestly and well. Too often in so-called erotica the threesome is drawn from cookie cutter and porn-flick cliche.

I'm a big fan of Anais Nin, so I love pretty much everything she has written--excluding her autobiographical stuff. Check out LITTLE BIRDS or DELTA OF VENUS.

Now let me tell you about the landmark collection EROTIQUE NOIR. That's my bible. The story in it I return to the most is THE THREE TOKEN STRADIVARIUS by R. Pope.

In the BROWN SUGAR anthologies by Carol Taylor (in which my works appear), the stories I return to the most are DRAG by Leone Ross, MOVIE LOVER by Michael Gonzales, and HOW I BECAME A WRITER by Lois Elaine Griffith.

Of course, THE STORY OF O is a favorite erotic read of mine--many scenes in that book are returned to time and time again.

Eric Jerome Dickey's BETWEEN LOVERS has a great threesome scene when Nicole and her wife make love to the narrator--DAYUMM.

A goodly number of my favorite erotic stories and scenes came as a surprise to me because they showed up in novels and story collections that had little or nothing to do with sex. If I have time I will make a list of them.

Three that come to mind are KISS OF THE SPIDERWOMAN by Manuel Puig, KINFLICKS by Lisa Alther, INVISIBLE MAN by Ralph Ellison, and RULES OF ATTRACTION by Brett Easton Ellis.

I'm out.

Preston

Glad That You're Back

2009-05-25T19:57:00.000-07:00

Q: Glad That You're back! Where were you? How has your career been going since you last blogged?

A: I'm back, I guess, because I never left. I just took a little break. I am not a true blogger, you know? There are all of these fancy things that blogs can do that mine can't and never will because I am not interested in wasting time learning how to do them. I am a writer, not a blogger. So I write, and if I have enough time and energy left over I write on the blog.

Lots of good things have been happening since last I blogged. At the very top of the list is my old friends at Akashic, who are currently editing my new novel JESUS BOY, which is due out some time in early 2010.

I am pumped! And I think the readers have waited long enough to meet the horny born again teen piano prodigy Elwyn and his much older cougar lover Sister Morrisohn, both of whom have lived in my head since . . . since I was a horny born again teen piano prodigy myself.

JESUS BOY is one of those weird books--I began writing it when I was Elwyn's age, 16, and I completed it when I was Sister Morrisohn's age, 42.

Enough about that.

I attended the Algonquin Pitch Writing Workshop in New York in March. Thanks to my wife and the bad economy, I was able to stay in a swanky Manhattan hotel across the street from the U.N. dirt cheap.

I got to meet Charles Salzberg (Swann's Last Song) and had my very positive tete a tetes with editors Sandy Harding, Zach Wagman, and Tom Colgan (Tom Clancy's editor). I am hoping one of these top editors, each of whom liked my pitch enough to request a read of the novel, will make an offer I can't refuse.

The novel is called The Virgin of Biscayne Boulevard. Wish me luck (or as Elwyn might say, Pray for me).

So I took a class at the MDC/St. Thomas University's Earth Ethics Institute this past semester. For the final assignment in that class, I wrote the short story, which became the novella, which became the full blown novel, EVERY BOY SHOULD HAVE A MAN, which is about a world where man is a house pet and the real masters of the earth are the Oafs, or Giants (as in David and Goliath Jack and the Beanstalk giants). But really, the book is about the environment. More on this later.

I have a story, THREE KISSES, coming out in a new erotic anthology edited by Robert Fleming. More on this later.

And I keep re-configuring my collection of psychopath short stories and changing its title--these days I am having a hard time finding titles for my books. Writing is easy. Titling is hard.

At any rate, I'm back!

Thanks,

Preston

Characters That Are Smarter Than the Writer

2009-05-25T19:11:00.000-07:00

Q: How do you write about characters that are smarter than you are?

Thanks,

AC

A: AC, it was great having you in class this semester. And, actually, I'm going to use your name, if you don't mind, because your short story is up for a major award--the League for Innovation Prize, and though I haven't heard back from the national judges yet, I have a sneaking suspicion that you are going to win it. We are all very proud of you at MDC, Alexander (Cherin).

Now back to your question. First of all, no character is smarter than you because you are the writer, which makes you God and thereby all powerfull and all knowing.

LOL

But never mind that. The most tried and true method for creating really smart characters is to base them on real life brainiacs. The first step, of course, is to do the research. Study the writings of the brainiac--get a bio or two on them--read up on what others have said about them, especially the writings of those who have had personal encounters with them like their friends, family, and colleagues. In this way, you will get a good feel for their personal characteristics and a sense of how others perceive them--and usually you don't need more than that to write your fictionalized clone of them. In fact, a good book about two great brains is on my list on this page--The Professor and the Mad Man--which is a really great read.

Now here is my question to you: Why do we find it difficult to write about people smarter than we are when we have no problem writing about people stronger, older, younger, sexier, braver, uglier, taller, shorter, more athletic, or more talented than we are?

Thanks,

Preston

Miami International Bookfair

2008-11-11T11:26:00.000-08:00

Come join me, Preston L. Allen, at the Miami International Bookfair.

I will be reading at 10:00 a.m. on Saturday November 15 in room 7106-07 at the Wolfson Campus of Miami-Dade College (the downtown campus).

Hope to see you there.

Be there or be square.

Thanks,

Preston

Skill or Luck

2008-10-20T17:36:00.000-07:00

Q: Is poker a game of skill or luck?

A: Easy answer: Poker is a game of skill.

Note that there are those who make a living playing it every day. It takes skill to be consistently a winner at anything.

Note that at the final table in every major tournament, the same dozen or so names show up again and again. Such a hierarchy of success implies skill, and skill implies that some are better at it than others. Luck creates no hierarchy of success.

Nevertheless, if you sit at any poker table long enough, you will hear the grumbling player: "My cards have gone cold. I haven't hit anything in 2 hours. My seat is bad. Boy, it would be nice to see a few good cards." This implies that a poker player only wins when he/she gets good cards. In other words, a player only wins if he/she is lucky.

Well, this may be true if you are a bad player. If you are a bad player, you need to be lucky to win. You need the right cards to fall your way.

Good players, on the other hand, win with skill. They study the other players at the table and strive to outplay them, out fox them, out think them. Sure, cards are important, but it is more important to know HOW to play those cards.

Here's another way to look at it.

Bad players pay to see cards--they are depending on lucky cards to come and help them win. They think this is what poker is all about.

More often than not, good players pay NOT to see cards. They are so much better than you that realistically the only thing that can beat them is luck--bad luck.

Thanks,

Preston

Looking for Magic

2008-10-19T16:58:00.000-07:00

Q: How do you know when your book is done and you can send it to the publishers?

A: I used to know how to answer this question, and I think that I actually did on an earlier blog--but since I just finished my latest novel, whose title changes each time the sun rises--I am going to tell you that writing gives me a high, maybe not as great as gambling, but pretty dang close. Here's what happened.

I finished the book a couple weeks ago and started reading it for magic--now magic is what happens when you start making connections between the parts of what you have written, seeing echoes and allusions and themes that you hadn't planned but that are much truer and more real than the ones you had planned.

When this happens, I sit there and think, "Is there someone up there writing this book for me? Leading me to these connections? What is going on here? The book seems to be writing itself. This new idea is soooooo good--how come I didn't PLAN for this in the first place?"

Then when I look at other books and stories that I have written, I do a quick survey of those magical things that happened without my planning for them to have happened. They are usually the BEST parts of the story. In fact, they are the things that people remember most--and I stumbled upon them last. Thank god.

Now I don't want to explain away the rainbow, but I think what happens in my case is that when my stories are finally written down in a completed form on the page, I can begin to read them critically and objectively, and so my mind is actively, though subconsciously, seeking theme and mystical coincidence.

Theme is what the story is (consistently) about--the deep meaning as your high school teachers used to say.

Mystical coincidences are the most fun. They are those moments that resonate with other parts of the story and make you say, "Wow, that is so true," or "He got just what he deserved," or "Thank god she came to his rescue--I was hoping and praying that she would." They are like punchlines to jokes that you didn't know you were even telling. You set them up in the reader's mind, but if you don't go back and become a reader yourself, you, the writer of the story and their creator, more often than not won't even realize that they are there.

Sometimes it's in a name--you notice all the villains' names begin with H, but one of them begins with an M--change it to an H or make it an M for a reason that echoes.

Sometimes it's a color--It happened to me in the story "Crip" with the main character who wore the mustard color suit--AFTER I had written the story I discovered a way to make the color mustard echo long after the story had ended.

Sometimes it's a missing scene--in my latest novel, I realized that the hero and the villain had so much in common except one thing--a chance for someone other than himself to tell his side--I went back and inserted that scene--it is now, probably, the most poignant scene in the book.

Sometimes it's an incomplete resolution--a minor character in my novel ALL OR NOTHING appeared twice--I brought him back because he was interesting and also in order that he would be able to complete the minor little sub-story that I didn't realize he was telling--this minor character was the protagonist's son, the lucky son, and his reappearance MADE the book what it was meant to be. It would be a completey different novel without his evolution, which came in one of the magical moments AFTER the book was supposedly completed.

There are lots of things like that--and you must take time to find them.

Finding magic like that is the best part of writing a book. Finding magic like that often MAKES the book.

When I stop finding magic like that, then I know that it is time to send it off to the publisher.

Thanks,

Preston

Thank You, Your Book and Your Blog Saved My Life

2008-10-14T13:21:00.000-07:00

Q: I don't really have a question to ask or anything. I just wanted to let you know that your book and your website saved my life.

Last year I was in debt up to my ears due to my gambling. I was in the process of losing my house, my wife, and seriously thinking of suicide. The gambling was so bad that I had to borrow to pay bills and necessities, but then I would end up blowing that money at the casinos. I was at least three months behind on everything including my mortgage.

I joined GA and started working on getting my life back together. I found a copy of your book in the bathroom at GA and asked the guy whose house we were having the meeting at if it was his. He said no. I asked a few other people and they said no. I opened it up and started reading it. I was very depressed, but the book cracked me up. I read the whole thing that night when I got home. I laughed most of the night, but some parts of it I found embarrasing. My wife came over the next day. We were (still are) separated because of my problem and she came over to yell at me about some money I was supposed to send to our son in college, and she saw the book and started reading it. She still yelled at me. But then a few days later she came over and we talked. She was a changed woman after reading your book. She said that the ending of the book had really scared her. She asked me if, like P, I was serioulsy thinking of killing myself, because she wanted me to know that in spite of our problems, she still loved me and thought the kids really needed me as their father in their lives regardless of my gambling.

I admitted to her that I thought about suicide every single day of my life. I told her that's just how it is with gamblers like me. She said that she understood that better now that she had read your book. She became very sad and serious and promised that she would always be there for me to help me though the hard times.

After that, we fought less and she tried her best to understand me. We are still not together, and sadly I did finally lose our house and some other things we owned, but she kept her promise and stood by me through it all. I did not take my own life, and I am well on my way to putting my life together. Life is hard, but life is better.

Your book helped me because it not only was funny and true, but it helped a non-gambler like my wife to understand what kind of creature a gambler is. Like I said, things are not perfect between us, but it is getting better.

I loved your book. It is the truest stuff I have ever heard or seen spoken on the subject of gambling.

Every gambler or everyone who knows a gambler should read your book and your blog; I love the honest advice that you give to gamblers.

A: Brother, thanks for your email. I do not really know how to respond to it except to say that I am proud of you and that I am pulling for you. Your wife is a wonderful person and you should count yourself blessed to have her. Keep on fighting. You will beat this thing.

Thanks,

Preston

Sex

2008-10-14T13:14:00.000-07:00

Q: In your personal sex life, are you like the characters in your stories? If so, which character are you most like?

A: I do not discuss sex, politics, or religion with strangers . . . but I will say that the inspiration for my sex scenes, though they are sometimes born in the mind, are often taken from real life experiences.

Or from real good porno that I have seen.

Thanks,

Preston

Nadine's Husband

2008-10-14T13:11:00.000-07:00

Q: Dear Mr. Allen,
How are you? I hope all is well with you. I was wondering what ever happened in "Nadine's Husband." I read the follow ups in BROWN SUGAR 2,3,and 4, but I was wondering if you were going to write a book because i was hooked.

A: Thanks for this email. It made my day, especially after so many emails about political things.

Well, I'm looking for a publisher. That takes time--but I am working on it hard. I will keep you posted.

Thanks,

Preston

This Is Why I Do Not Get Political With Strangers

2008-10-10T13:01:00.000-07:00

I fear the mob mentality.

I fear strongly held but poorly supported beliefs posing as fact.

I fear rumor and hearsay.

I don't like people shouting each other down.

I fear sound bites as a substitute for argument.

I don't like to fight; I like to argue.

The bible says, "He that argues with a fool is a fool himself"; and every member of a mob, who moves with the mob, whether it be for the right or for the wrong, is momentarily a fool, for he has surrendered though momentarily his ability to think for himself.

I don't like mobs, for one cannot argue with a mob; one can only fight a mob, and I do not like to fight. I like to argue. I do not argue with fools. When you argue politics publically, you almost always end up arguing with a fool and as it follows, behaving yourself as a fool.

That's one reason you couldn't pay me to watch the so-called debates, name-calling on national television so as to please your mob is not a debate. We black people have a name for it. It is called "signifying," "doing the dozen," or "ranking." "Yo mama so fat, she got her own zip code." Saying stuff like that to get your mob riled up at the other guy.

When I was a younger man, in grade school, I was chased home by a mob of schoolboys and schoolgirls, threatening to beat me up and yelling racial insults at me--they were black, as am I, so it was not a black/white thing. They thought I was Haitian, though to this day I do not understand what that had to do with it. I was the new kid from Boston, wherever that was, and I spoke English like Bostonians do rather than like Southern African-Americans do, and I was dark skinned (but so were most of the others--but since I was new, my dark skin made me a Haitain--are you following this?).

At any rate, it made me very sad to hear these kids, some of whom I thought I liked or could possibly like, saying these terrible things to me. I was on the verge of crying when I finally made it home.

The next day, and for several days more, I approached individually pretty much everybody who had joined in on the gang-up. And I talked to them, made jokes with them, made friends with them, and it worked with most of them. Things went fine after that. I became a very popular boy in the fourth grade, though new to that school and that city, Miami.

The mob scared me; and it still does. But I am unafraid to discuss ANYthing with ANYbody individually. Members of the mob are less the fool when they stand on their own two feet. There is safety in numbers, as well as insanity.

I am very saddened by the following article I found on AOL. If I could, I would speak to each and everybody who goes to these rallies and behaves in this insane (mobbish) manner.

Let me try to understand this . . . you are angry because a man is running for president whose views are slightly different from your own (In truth, Repubs and Dems are the same face on the same coin as far as I am concerned). If this angers you, then what, in your opinion, is democracy? These charges that you level at him--do you really believe them? Really? Do you know how many "suspected" terrorists are being held captive right now by the US? America takes terrorism seriously. Why is this man not being held? Come on, stop being silly. You're not in 4th grade anymore. Pose your arguments and force him to respond to them--he seems nice enough, and he seems like he knows how to argue. Argue with him. Argue with them. Do not yell and shout like . . . the uncivilized do.

And by the way, if you are certain that the man is a terrorist, then it is your duty as a citizen, or a senator, or a governor, to have him arrested immediately. If you don't do something to get a known terrorist arrested, then you need to be arrested yourself.

And by the way part 2, this is not about Republicans. Democrats do it too.

We are a free society. We have freedom of speech. We also have freedom to listen. These two freedoms combined make us both free and civilized.

But we seem happier to argue from the safety of large numbers. Be warned that there is a danger in practicing such a weak form of argument in a democratic society.

A few years ago I found myself watching an episode of the Jerry Springer Show. The topic that day was Man-Boy Love, and the show featured a panel made up of men from an organization called the North American Man-Boy Love Association, or NAMBLA--these are men who advocate for the right of adult males (over the age of 18) to have consensual sex with non-adult males (under the age of 18) a practice that in most states would be categorized as statutory rape--sex between an adult and a minor.

The men of NAMBLA spoke first--they argued that it is unfair on at least three grounds for them to be forbidden from having sex with males under 18.

First, the law discriminates against them as homosexuals because in every state a parent of a child under the age of 18 (and over the age of 13) can sign for the child to have the right to marry and have legal sex with an adult--no such option is available for a child who wants to have legal sex with an adult of the same sex.

Second, a child who is an out homosexual, they argue, can benefit greatly from the sexual guidance provided by a mature homosexual, but he will fail to get this because of the law, and will procede to make many (and possibly) dangerous mistakes as he is finding his way on his own as a young homosexual.

Finally, they added, the young men (who already know that they are homosexual and are confident in their identity) are wasting many good years of sex because of laws that criminalize behaviours in homosexuals that are dismissed or winked at when they occur with heterosexuals.

Now, whether you agree with these arguments or not, you need to hear how Jerry Springer's studio audience responded to the words of the men from NAMBLA.

People jumped up yelling things like, "I feel like punching you in your mouth."

"If I caught you in my neighborhood, I would string you up by your toes."

"You ought to be shot."

"You are monsters! You need to be killed."

So went the argument of the mod. In fact, it was no argument at all. The mob on the Springer Show, as so often happens, used its large numbers to shout down an argument that it found distasteful.

Very entertaining, but perhaps not.

Shouldn't we, as a civilized people, if we dislike NAMBLA be able to beat its argument with a better argument? In fact, shouldn't it be a no-brainer to counter such a weak argument as theirs, if, in fact, it is so badly flawed? And it is badly flawed, right? That's why we all in this large group disagree with it? But can we articulate intelligently WHY we disagree with it?

More often than not, the answer is no, we cannot. And thus, we can beat their butts, but not their argument.

Perhaps we cannot beat their argument because we have spent too many years arguing from the safety of the mob. We have gotten soft where the ability to argue is concerned. If we outnumber them, we win by shouting them down or beating them up, not by having a better argument. We win because of the strength in our numbers.

It is easy but dangerous to depend on this method to win arguments. First of all, When you argue, you may not always be in a majority (or at a rally preaching to the choir--you might be standing before the Supreme Court in front of an impartial group of jurists).

Second, you never really have any way to be sure that you are right--because you never learned how to argue so as to reach "truth."

And when those impartial jurists come back and grant NAMBLA the right to have sexual relations with boys, you will have to admit that the ony reason they won was because younever learned how to argue, having always depended on the mob to win the day for you.

And there have been many decisions made over the years that members of various angry mobs reciting their group's message to themselves have disagreed with--Roe V Wade, Affirmitive Action, the various repeals of parts of Affirmitive Action nationwide, the War in Iraq, the Civil Rights Bill, the removal of prayer from school, the right to Display the Confederate flag in government buildings in the South, the right for the Confederate Flag to appear in one form or another in the modern flags of various states of the former Confederacy, women's suffrage, taxation without legislation, the Vietnam War, gay marriage, the draft, $700 Billion Dollar bailouts, One Nation Under God.

If the mobs had learned to argue, some of these things would never have been enacted into law. If they had learned to argue, they might have learned to think and would therfore understand why it was just and right that some of these things they initially disagreed with were enacted into law.

But of course, I'm wrong. Arguing is way too hard, even here in civilized, intelligent, democratic America.

It really is a whole lot easier just to call someone a terrorist in front of 10,000 people who already agree with you.

Thanks,

Preston

___________________

Found on Aol

(Oct. 10) - The unmistakable momentum behind Barack Obama's campaign, combined with worry that John McCain is not doing enough to stop it, is ratcheting up fears and frustrations among conservatives.

And nowhere is this emotion on plainer display than at Republican rallies, where voters this week have shouted out insults at the mention of Obama, pleaded with McCain to get more aggressive with the Democrat and generally demonstrated the sort of visceral anger and unease that reflects a party on the precipice of panic.

The calendar is closing and the polls, at least right now, are not.

With McCain passing up the opportunity to level any tough personal shots in his first two debates and the very real prospect of an Obama presidency setting in, the sort of hard-core partisan activists who turn out for campaign events are venting in unusually personal terms.

"Terrorist!” one man screamed Monday at a New Mexico rally after McCain voiced the campaign’s new rhetorical staple aimed at raising doubts about the Illinois senator: “Who is the real Barack Obama?”

"He's a damn liar!” yelled a woman Wednesday in Pennsylvania. "Get him. He's bad for our country."

At both stops, there were cries of, “Nobama,” picking up on a phrase that has appeared on yard signs, t-shirts and bumper stickers.

And Thursday, at a campaign town hall in Wisconsin, one Republican brought the crowd to their feet when he used his turn at the microphone to offer a soliloquy so impassioned it made the network news and earned extended play on Rush Limbaugh’s program.

“I’m mad, I’m really mad!” the voter bellowed. “And what’s going to surprise ya, is it’s not the economy – it’s the socialists taking over our country.”

After the crowd settled down he was back at it. “When you have an Obama, Pelosi and the rest of the hooligans up there gonna run this country, we gotta have our head examined!”

Such contempt for Democrats is, of course, nothing new from conservative activists. But in 2000 and 2004, the Republican rank-and-file was more apt to ridicule Gore as a stiff fabulist or Kerry as an effete weathervane of a politician.

“Flip-flop, flip-flop,” went the cry at Republican rallies four years ago, often with footwear to match the chant.

Now, though, the emotion on display is unadulterated anger rather than mocking.
Activists outside rallies openly talk about Obama as a terrorist, citing his name and purported ties to Islam in the fashion of the viral emails that have rocketed around the Internet for over a year now.

Some of this activity is finding its way into the events, too.

On Thursday, as one man in the audience asked a question about Obama’s associations, the crowd erupted in name-calling.

"Obama Osama!" one woman called out.

And twice this week, local officials have warmed up the crowd by railing against “Barack Hussein Obama.”

Both times, McCain’s campaign has issued statements disavowing the use of the Democrat’s full name.

A McCain aide said they tell individuals speaking before every event not to do so. “Sometimes people just do what they want,” explained the aide.

The raw emotions worry some in the party who believe the broader swath of swing voters are far more focused on their dwindling retirement accounts than on Obama’s background and associations and will be turned off by footage of the McCain events.

John Weaver, McCain’s former top strategist, said top Republicans have a responsibility to temper this behavior.

“People need to understand, for moral reasons and the protection of our civil society, the differences with Senator Obama are ideological, based on clear differences on policy and a lack of experience compared to Senator McCain,” Weaver said. “And from a purely practical political vantage point, please find me a swing voter, an undecided independent, or a torn female voter that finds an angry mob mentality attractive.”

“Senator Obama is a classic liberal with an outdated economic agenda. We should take that agenda on in a robust manner. As a party we should not and must not stand by as the small amount of haters in our society question whether he is as American as the rest of us. Shame on them and shame on us if we allow this to take hold.”

But, if it were up to them, such hard-edged tactics are clearly what many in the party base would like to use against Obama.

That McCain has so far seemed reluctant to do so has frustrated Republicans.

“It's time that you two are representing us, and we are mad,” reiterated the boisterous Republican at McCain’s town hall in Wisconsin Thursday. “So go get 'em!”

"I am begging you, sir, I am begging you -- take it to him," pleaded James T. Harris, a local talk radio host at the same event, earning an extended standing ovation.

“Yosemite Sam is having the law laid down to him today in Waukesha, Wisconsin,” quipped Limbaugh on his show Thursday, referring to the GOP nominee. “This guy, this audience member is exactly right,” the conservative talk show host said of the first individual.

Who IS Going to Be the Next President

2008-10-03T11:37:00.000-07:00

Q: Who is going to be the next president, Obama or McCain?

A: Your mama.

Stop asking me political questions! I will not post them. Call me, if you want to discuss politics. I do not discuss sex, politics, or religion in public.

Thanks,

Preston

Black Jack

2008-10-03T11:09:00.000-07:00

Q: Do you know anything about Black Jack? I noticed that there wasn't much about Black Jack in your novel ALL OR NOTHING. I have recently started playing and I was wondering if there is a reason the dealer wins so much. Have you noticed that she hits the great numbers 19, 20, 21 and beats you with them so often that it looks like she is cheating? Do you think they are cheating? I have lost about $2000 so far and I am thinking about giving up the game. I can't seem to win a hand, even the goood hands.

A: Yes, Texas Hold'em is very dear to the protagonist's heart in my novel, but Black Jack, if you recall, is the downfall of his girlfriend C.L. That is the game she cheats at to get thrown out of Las Vegas.

I am no expert on Black Jack, but I have played it enough to know what you are talking about--the dealer's uncanny ability to draw 19, 20, and 21--just when you get a really good hand like a 19 or 20 or 21, creating an unsatisfying "push" or worse yet, a loss, or your part.

But actually, there is a mathematical reason for this tendency to hit great hands on the dealer's part.

What a lot of newcomers to the Black Jack game do not immediately realize is that the Black Jack deck is over-stacked with 10s. Ten is the most commmon card in the deck. In the deck there are more 10s than any other card. What am I talking about?

Take 6, for example. There are 4 sixes per deck: six of diamonds, six of clubs, six of hearts, six of spades. Therefore if the dealer needs a six to beat you, she is unlikely to get it because sixes are rare; or, looked at this way, she only has a one in 52 chance, roughly, of getting it because there are only four of them in the deck.

How many 10s are there in the deck? Answer: 16!

Yes, 16.

See, there are four 10s, four Jacks (counted as 10 points), four queens (counted as 10 points), and four kings counted as 10 points).

So there are 16 chances out of 52 for the dealer who needs a ten to get it.

This also means that when the dealer is showing an ACE, that there is about a little over 30% chance (one in three) that her other card is a ten, a black jack, perfect 21, and that she will beat you.

It follows then, that the dealer showing a 10, likely has another 10 hidden and she may beat you with 20.

And the dealer showing a 9, likely has a hidden 10, which will be a great hand with 19.

And the dealer showing an 8, likely has a hidden 10, which will be an 18.

And so on.

Black Jack is a great game, the only game in the casino that gives the player a slight edge over the house. But if you play it, expect your GOOD hand to be beaten time and again (at least 1 out of 3 times) by the dealer's GREAT hand.

Getting beat like that is just part of the game.

Thanks,

Preston

I May Have to Return to the Casinos

2008-10-02T13:05:00.000-07:00

Okay, this precognition thing is getting worse. Or better. I am now beginning to see a way that I can control it. Maybe. I still have no way to figure out what my dreams mean, but the other powers are becoming more manageable.

This morning I went to court--but first I went to the school to drop off materials for the person who would be subbing my class. My court appointment was at a courthouse downtown, so I thought it might be wise to stop off at an ATM and get some cash for parking. Across from the school there was a Walgreens--with an ATM!--but something told me, a voice in my head, don't worry about taking out money--leave it in the bank.

In fact, traffic would not let me get into the lane to get to the Walgreen's. I was forced by the traffic to go through the light and then make a U-turn to get to Walgreen's. Then when I got there, the ATM machine was broken. Okay, so I would buy a pack of gum and ask for $20 back in cash. This plan had problems, too. The woman working the register was new and inexperienced and kept voiding out the transaction. Finally, she got it right and I had my $20 in cash.

I got into my car, running late now because of the delays at the Walgreen's, and realized that the address of the courthouse (though I did not know exactly where it was) was near the downtown campus of my college; in other words, parking for me was free--all I had to do was park in a faculty slot at the college and ride the free people mover over to the courthouse. Duh.

So I parked in a faculty slot and got out of my car--forgetting my cell phone in the car. I was running late, but I never go anywhere without my cellphone. As I ran back to get it, a voice popped into my head again--it said, "Just leave your cellphone in the car. It's not like they're going to let you use it in court. You're going to have to turn it off anyway."

I said to myself, "Yeah, that's true, but I might need it afterwards."

So I got on the elevator to take me back upstairs to the faculty parking, but the elevator went down instead of up. So I had to wait for it to go all the way to the bottom floor before going back up to where my car was parked. More delays. Running late. It was close to 10:00. My court time was 10:00.

Finally, phone in hand, I ran to the people mover, got off at Government Center, entered the courthouse and dropped my keys, belt, and cellphone into the metal detector, picked them up on the other side, got on the elevator, rode it up to the 14th floor, got to another metal detector outside the courtroom and was told by the marshall guarding the door: "No, you can't bring that cellphone in here. No--abosultely, no--electronic devices are allowed in the courtroom."

Crap! I should have listened to that voice in my head. So now what was I going to do? I had 5 minutes before my court appointment. Crap!

I got on the elevator and rode it back to the first floor. I was frantic. I pleaded with the guards down there: "What am I going to do? I need to go to court, but I can't enter the courtroom with a cellphone. Do you guys have lockers or something where I can stash my phone for an hour or two?"

They shook their heads no, some of them cracking smiles. They had seen it all before.

There were two other guards there who were guarding the door to the outside: one was a friendly black man who had welcomed me in upon my arrival; the other was an elderly hispanic man, who spoke very little English--I had overheard him "trying" to direct an English-speaking woman to the restroom in broken English. His English was very poor.

But something told me to talk to him.

So I went to him instead of the friendly black man.

When I got up real close to him, I noticed he had a Honduran flag tattoed on his wrist. Interesting. I was born in Honduras, though I speak absolutely no Spanish. I come from the English-speaking side of the country--I'll explain more in a later blog.

So I went up to this guy and told him my problem.

He nodded his head and told me in broken English: "Go e-next door. Photo e-shop. A girl, a nice girl. Virginia. She will e-hold e-phone for you. Maybe give her some money."

Bingo!

I ran next door to the photo shop beside the courthouse, and the nice girl Virginia was not only nice enough to hold the phone for me, but she refused to take any money.

I ran back inside the courthouse and made it to my appointment, at most, 30 seconds late.

Afterwards, I got my phone from nice girl Virginia. Again I offered money, and again she refused.

I was going to get on the people mover to go retrieve my car, but a voice in my head said: "It is not too far. Walk."

So I walked back to the parking garage.

When I got there, there was a crowd waiting to get on at that end of the people mover. They were not happy. I over head them saying:

"It broke down again."

"This damn thing. I wish they would fix it."

"I need to get to court."

"Maybe we should walk to court. It's not too far."

"This damn machine. They should fix it."

Again, I had listened to the voice in my head and come out AHEAD.

Now if I can only figure out how to do that in the casino.

Thanks,

Preston

Don't Make It Political, Please

2008-10-01T15:57:00.000-07:00

Q: I'm not asking you whether you support Obama or McCain, I'm just asking why you think that Clinton supporters, for a while there, were splitting off and going to McCain. Is it racially motivated?

A: I don't know. I cannot and will not speak for the motivations of other people, except for the characters in my novel, which is what you should be asking me questions about. I do, however, have my opinions and feelings on the subject. Meet me in private and we'll talk.

Or maybe, I'll just pose without answering it this question that has been running through my brain.

If I am a Democrat and a Clinton supporter, but Clinton loses to Obama, do I cease to support the ideals of the Democratic party and suddenly become a Republican? How do I all of a sudden become a Republican? Was I ever really a Democrat or was I just supporting a particular candidate?

Well, that's my question, and I do not need an answer to it. Just asking. That's all.

Like Leonard Cohen says, "I'm neither left nor right/ I'm just staying home tonight/ getting lost in this hopeless little screen."

No more politics. Time to pay your 700 billion dollar bar tab and head on home.

Thanks,

Preston

Now the Fun Begins

2008-09-25T17:29:00.000-07:00

Here's a shout out to my old Professor John Dufresne for his great new book REQUIEM MASS.: A NOVEL, and for getting me started on a routine that is crucial to my career as a novelist. I get up every morning at 4 or 5 a.m. and write for one hour almost every day of the year.

Last week, I finished my prison novella FAMILY BLOOD--I'm still not comfortable with it, so I'm going to work on it a bit more before I shop it.

This morning I put the finishing touches on my collection, FACES IN THE WALL. I'm done with it. Finished. At last! Romance, philosophy, and serial killers. Yum!

In 4 (or 5) more days my novel FACE OF EVIL will be completed--so those of you who have been waiting almost ten years for the sequel to HOOCHIE MAMA, get ready to line up at your local bookstore. M Gantry is back and she is one baaaaaad muthaf--shut yo mouth--I'm talkin' bout M. Her crew is with her too, Sosa and Lambert (yes, I brought Michael Lambert back from the grave--he was too good to give up; actually this story takes place before the adventure in HOOCHIE MAMA, so it's actually a prequel).

One hour a day--it works, people. I highly recommend it.

Of course I don't always "write" every morning that I get up--sometimes I spend my hour proofreading, sometimes re-reading stuff I've written, sometimes reading someone else's work--the point is to spend at least one hour a day devoted to the craft.

For me, one hour a day produces about 3 pages a day; about 90 pages a month; about 1000 pages a year; about three book length works a year. As you can see, this year has been a good year. Two Face Books and a Blood.

Now the fun begins.

Thanks,

Preston

Can Someone Who Does Not Like to Read Become a Great Writer?

2008-09-20T18:02:00.000-07:00

Q: I saw your performance today at MDC. I think I have a book in me, I would like to write a novel, but I have to admit that I do not read books except those I must read for school. Can someone like myself who does not like to read become a great writer, or should I just give up and do something else?

A: I think I have answered this question before, or something pretty close to it. I find it to be a very annoying question and find that it shows up all too frequently.

My simple answer is this: give up and do something else.

People learn to speak, by listening to others (their mothers and fathers, their close household kin).

If no one speaks to you, then you will not learn to speak. It is as simple as that. And if you do speak, you will have no sense of how horrible you sound to other people.

So it is with writing. Writers learn to writer by reading.

Before we write, we must first read.

And if we write, without first having read, we will have no idea how horribly our books read to other people.

"But I don't like to read," you argue, "and I don't want my style to be influenced by anyone else's. I want to be original in my poetry and fiction."

Sigh. You're so young.

But, dear emailer, believe it or not, you have already been exposed to reading if you grew up in this country. You read nursery rhymes and Dr. Seuss, right? You read birthday cards, right? And that is exactly what your so-called original poetry is going to sound like--if you don't start reading lots of good poetry.

And whether you like reading novels or not, you have already been exposed to a very powerful storytelling influence: film and TV. And that is exactly what your so-called original fiction is going to sound like--if you don't start reading lots of good books.

In the beginning, your work may be (and sound) a bit derivitive of the good poets and writers that you are reading. That is to be expected as you are evolving into a creature with its own original voice. Think about the child who repeats the words and expressions of his/her parents and older siblings; ah, but in a few short years, the child is speaking his/her own original thoughts with his/her own original voice.

Writing is like that.

You can't help but to be original because you are you, and you are the only you there is.

But neither can you learn to talk, or to write, unless you begin by mimicking someone else's words.

This is as gentle as I can be in responding to this annoying question, but I sense that you are genuine in your search for an answer. If you ask me again, I promise not to be so nice.

People who do not read . . . groan . . . suffice it to say that writers are not fond of people who do not read.

Why in the heck would you want to write if you yourself do not like to read?

Why paint a picture if you do not like to look?

Why sing songs if you do not like to listen?

I am baffled by emails such as this.

Thanks,

Preston

Politics and Religion

2008-09-13T01:48:00.000-07:00

A typical question that I usually do not answer, but this time I will . . .

Sort of . . .

In fact, I'm not even going to say whether the question was about politics or religion . . .

It's getting annoying, people . . .

This, I hope, shall put it to rest . . .

________________________
Q: Far be it from me, Mr. Allen, to ask what side of the debate you are on, but do you not feel a need to guide those who are on the wrong path, especially the younger ones?

A: If a young (or old) person is on the "wrong" path and he/she encounters me and I perceive that he/she is not someone's blind, mindless follower out to convert me or to argue pointlessly with me so as to grandstand in the name of his/her religion/political party, then I shall be more than happy to offer my guidance on any matter, even religion and politics.

"When they differ on the issue, they cannot both be right. But they can both be wrong."
--Preston L. Allen, Sunday School 1976

"The first lie is that there are two sides to the argument. Age has taught me that where politics is concerned, there are seldom two sides to the argument. Usually what we have is a debate between reason and someone else's self-interest, and self-interest, because it is unafraid to continue to deceive its base, usually wins. Thus, in politics, the odds are roughly equal in a debate between the mental giant and the mental idiot."
--Preston L. Allen, Miramar barber shop 2005

"I am bothered as much by the atheist as by the true-believer. If the true-believer is wrong, then he/she is a child still believing in Santa Claus, but why write entire books, script entire speeches, and build entire arguments to prove that Santa does not exist? When I meet children who still believe in Santa, I smile at them and say, 'Merry Christmas!' Remember, Christmas is a useful holiday whether Santa is real or not."
--Preston L. Allen, Christmas shopping 2001

"So you want to be a witch? You are now into Wicca? Good luck, young man, and enjoy the miseries that will ensue. I hold nothing against Wicca, as I hold nothing against Christianity or any other religion. However, you are in college and one day you will hold a degree and be a job seeker in a largely Christian, Jewish, and Muslim world--these religions all perceive themselves to be on the light side and perceive Wicca to be on the dark. I think you are deliberately giving yourself a disadvantage, perhaps to prove a point--young people are always out to prove points, and that in and of itself is not a bad thing, the real problem being that the young have a great deal of passion and very little discretion, and therefore they often rebel, so to speak, 'without a cause.' If you are genuine and passionate in your unusual belief, why wear it on your sleeve? I have my doubts about you, young man. Now, we both know that no Christian, Jewish, or Muslim god is going to come down and strike you if you make this decision; but no Wiccan god is going to protect you either. All of the gods, both light and dark, are too busy for that--at least the gods have been too busy for that for the last 10,000 years. Perhaps they have been sleeping. But man is neither too busy, nor sleeping. Man is wide awake. Man has idle time. Man has idle hands. Man will strike you down in the name of his god of light. If you're looking for a fight, then join the dark side. If you're truly looking for spiritual enlightenment--it's not on the outside, it's within. It's not in a religion or an anti-religion--it's in the heart and the mind. Be a good person. Be good to people, please. Don't let a god or a devil or a witch or a warlock tell you how to be good. Goodness is already in your heart. Just be good, cuz. And when you find a real cause to fight for, you know that you can count on me."
--Preston L. Allen, to a young cousin 1992

________________________

Now please, no more religious and political questions.

Thanks,

Preston

A Gambler Dreams

2008-09-12T14:57:00.000-07:00

Wow, this new semester is taxing me mightily with work.

I've got tons of papers to grade and I am almost finished with my latest novel, so instead of writing for my usual one hour a day, I have been writing 3 or 4, which leaves me little or no time to blog.

Sorry about that, guys.

Instead of answering emails this time, I am going to post a few weird dreams I have had and maybe you can tell me what they mean . . . maybe they represent winning lotto numbers or something.

When I finish the new book (in the next few days), I will be able to start blogging again with regularity.

____________________________
Dreams

1. I needed money to gamble and my account only had $200 in it, so I went to my youngest son, age 5 or 6 it looked like, and asked him for $400.

He said, "Okay, papa," and hopped on his bike and came back with $400.

When I saw the money, I decided to press my luck and said, "Really, son, I need another $1000."

He said, "Okay, papa," and hopped on his bike and came back with $1000.

When I saw this, I said, "Son, I really need $10,000 . . . is that okay?"

The 5-year old (who in real life is 14) said, "Okay, papa," and hopped on his bike and came back with a bag full of money. $10,000!

So I put the money in my wallet and noticing that he disapeared to use the bathroom, I snuck into his bedroom and took out his bank pass book (which no one uses these days). To my astonishment, his balance read, $300,000,000! My 5-year old was a millionaire.

Now I became very exited.

When he came out of the bathroom, I said to him, "Really, son, I need $100,000."

He said, "Okay, papa," and when he came back from the bank this time, I put the hundred grand in my wallet and headed for my car to go to the casino and gamble.

My wife stopped me at the door.

She said, "Do you not even want to know where he got the money from?"

I hadn't thought about that. "Where?" I said.

She said, "From his father."

"But I am his father."

She said, "No! Tommy is his father, and you don't even care!"

She stormed off loudly weeping and shedding big tears, and I shrugged and headed for my car. Whoever Tommy was, I would deal with that when I came back from the casino. For now it was time to gamble.

2. My father and I were on an island. I think we were stranded there. I was sooooo hungry. Somehow it came to my attention that my father was not as hungry as I was. Somehow I noticed that he was gaining weight despite being stranded on the island along with me. I begged him to tell me his secret.

He refused at first, but finally broke down and told me.

He said, "I learned this trick from years of sailing on the high seas as a merchant marine. Sometimes on the ship, we run out of food for weeks. When there is no other food, we prepare and eat our feces. But you have to do it the right way. Here, let me show you."

He took me to a tree, reached up into its leafy branches, and pulled down a square, brown cake of his feces that had been hidden up there. He handed it to me. It didn't smell so bad, but it felt heavy and solid like a rock in my hands.

"Eat up," he said. "It's not as bad as it looks."

I took a bite. It was nasty. Now inside my mouth felt like it was full of spiderwebs. And there was something crunchy in my mouth, too.

When I looked down at the cake of my father's feces, it was oozing bloody human fingers. I tried to spit it out, but the stuff was sticking to the inside of my mouth. My mouth was oozing blood.

3. I had a dream about my mother, who passed recently, and I don't remember whether she was actually in the dream or whether she was just a ghostlike voice, but she ordered me to read her journal out loud. So I read it out loud. I don't remember what I read, but she shouted very angrily, "No, don't read it in order. Read it backwards in the mirror."

I took it to the mirror and read it out loud backwards.

It read, "Hop home on your one foot, demon day. Hop home on your one foot, demon day."

I said, "Mommy, what does it mean?"

These were the words to a silly tune she used to sing to us, playfully teasing us (her sons), whenever we lost to her at checkers or some other game. I never understood these words, though as a child I used to squeal with delight when she sang them.

"What does it mean?" I pleaded.

She said, "Look in the mirror again."

I looked in the mirror again.

The mirror was cracked.

4. My daughter was in the backyard with my mother-in-law. My daughter, who is now 18, was a toddler of maybe 2 or 3 in the dream. She was wearing a little blue jeans overall dress set and a deep red shirt underneath. My daughter was lying on her back, and my mother-in-law Was trying to teach her how to pee on the grass. I heard my daughter crying pitifully and my mother-in-law shouting commands like "Shame on you," "Do it right now," "You're a big girl now, you should be able to do this."

When I looked between my daughter's legs, she had a big, black, bushy vagina, like an adult woman's vagina, and instead of urine coming out of her, she was dripping white semen.

My first impulse was to run and help her, but I slunk away in shame, hiding my eyes from her nakedness.

When I was safely inside the house, I screamed, "Leave her alone! Leave her alone!"

I listened with all my might, but I didn't hear any sounds coming from outside.

I woke up sobbing and shivering.

5. This one is the most recent. Last night I dreamt I was walking across a mattress upon which slept a large black jungle cat--a panther or something. A voice told me, "Be careful," but too late--I shook the mattress and the large predator awoke and pounced on me. He bit me hard on the hand, and having no other way to fight him, I bit him hard on the head. I don't know how I did it, but I put his entire head into my mouth and bit it, as though he were no bigger than a house cat.

Then I awoke.
___________________

Thanks,

Preston

My Politics

2008-09-01T19:55:00.000-07:00

Dear loyal emailers, thanks for the emails, but as I have stated many times, politics is one of three things that I do not discuss in public, religion and sex being the other two.

I do not publicly discuss politics even in the era of Obama and Palin--though I am tempted.

But if I were one who discussed politics, I might tell you to go out and vote--vote your conscience.

Thanks,

Preston

Write What You Know

2008-08-26T10:01:00.000-07:00

Q: I took an honors creative writing class last year and I have read lots of books on writing, but what do they mean by write what you know? They all say that but I don't really understand. My English teacher gave me some good feedback but I'd like to hear what you think.

A: Yes, we always say that--write what you know.

Write what you know, but what do you know? You are still young, a high school student, right?

Well, let's try to understand it this way--write what you don't know . . . . Now think about that for a while. Think of all the things you don't know--how interesting would those things be to write about? How difficult? How much research would you have to do? How interesting would it be to read? Write about nuclear physics, for example, something that neither you (I presume) nor I know very much about.

But you do know what it means to be you (among other things). So now let's go back to that nuclear physics assignment. What if a kid like you, say, found out that his new stepfather was a nuclear physicist . . . after a little research on nuclear physics, you would find that story a lot more natural for you to write, and a lot more authentic feeling for the reader to read.

The best stories are always in one way or another about human truths--and you, because of who you are, know the truth about being a teen--or maybe you know the truth about getting a new stepfather that is out of your league--it is that truth that will make the story worthy of reading--even though it is, for the most part, a complete fabrication.

"Writers have to know how to tell the truth before they know how to tell a lie."
--some guy whose name I don't recall

"Fiction is the lie that tells the truth."
--John Dufresne

"Authenticity comes from personal truth. Speak your personal truth and you have found your voice as a writer."
--Some guy named Preston L. Allen

Now don't confuse "write what you know" with "limit yourself to writing from your limited, peronal vantage point." Study. Research. Learn things. Engage the world. Live life. Study people. Learn people. Then tell the truth disguised as a lie.

I often tell people that BOUNCE, my novel written from the point of view of a black hispanic female who is still in love with an abusive ex-husband, is my most autobiographical novel. And it is. Cindique is me, but so is her lover Roderick Redd . . . I will not explain further.

At a reading once, a woman asked me, "How can you presume to write from the point of view of a woman?"

My answer was a challnege, something like: "Because no one knows THIS woman better than me, not even another woman. In other words, you may know women, but I know Cindique. I also know my mother--who do you think could write more effectively about her, you or me? Writers must learn to write the personal truth of all of the characters that they create. Writers can't be afraid to write out of their sex, or out of their race and ethnicity, if that is where the personal truth leads them."

Read these two interesting novels by writers writing out of their sex: MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA (written by a man); Damage (written by a woman).

As a CRW teacher, I have noticed a couple things about young/beginning writers.

Thing 1) They tend to write a great deal of science fiction and fantasy stories and stories involving dreams or dream sequences. I think that the reason for this is that, when we are young and our knowledge of human nature is till limited, we write such fabulist fiction so that no one can point a finger at us and say, "You don't know what you're talking about." If they point their finger thus in criticism, we can simply answer, "Yeah, but I made it up, so anything can happen. It's not real. It's science fiction." (As though good science fiction or fantasy is any less real to the reader than any other genre of writing.)

Thing 2) The best young/beginning writers tend to be those who have suffered a great deal of pain and thus have a personal well of painful truth to pull from. Thus, some of the best writings we find in CRW classes is from students writing about abuse, rape, poverty, homelessness, and the consequences of any number of bad choices they have made.

I had a friend in grad school I hadn't heard from in a while. When I did, I said to him, "Hey man, are you still writing? Are you getting anything published?"

He said, "No. After I graduated, I married a beautiful woman and we had three great kids. My life improved. I made up with my horrible father. I'm not sad anymore. I am happy now. I guess now I have nothing to write about."

I guess.

Here's something else to ponder: Although their are many exceptons, most writers write their best stuff AFTER the age of forty,

(After they have lived life a bit?

Hmmmmmm.

Thanks,

Preston

What Are You Working On?

2008-08-23T04:43:00.001-07:00

Q: What are you working on right now?

A: I think I answered this one before. At any rate, I answer it a lot. Here is my latest verison of the answer--I am shopping a book that has lots of serial killers in it--it is sort of a sequel to my first novel "Hoochie Mama"; I am shopping a romance about a cougar; I am completing the middle book of the White Face trilogy; I am pondering the All or Nothing seqel, "Son of a P."

It is 5 a.m. in the morning. I've finished my writing for the day. I'm going to bed now.

Preston

Book Club

2008-08-21T14:33:00.000-07:00

Q: Hello, Preston L. Allen. I saw your book on my neighbor's bookshelf and I began excitedly to discuss it with her until she told me that she hadn't read it yet. She is one of those book lovers who buy a lot more books than they can ever read. She explained that she saw the book's review in the NY Times and she bought it that Sunday along with several other books that she also hadn't gotten around to reading just yet.

When I told her that this was a book she needed to read, she asked me why.

When I told her because it was great, she said to me, "I've read many gambling books, what is so great about this one?" That question, for some reason, stumped me. I tried for several moments stumblingly and bumblingly to explain what was so great about the book, to explain the addictive plot, to explain all of the insights that I had garnered about gambling, to explain the incredible humor, to explain the unique voice until I finally gave up and yelled, "This book is unlike any other book you will ever read, seriously. It will grip you from the first page and take you on a wild crazy ride not just through the world of casino gambling, but through the mind of a unique character. What I'm trying to tell you is that it's great and unique. Just read it! You won't be disappointed!"

She called me later that night laughing and making sounds of delight. She said, "Great book! Thank you for making me read it. It's not just about gambling, it's about everything. I can't explain it." I told her, "See, I told you." We spent nearly two hours discussing it.

We would like to invite you to come to our book club if that is possible. We live in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. Would that be possible, we see that you live in Miami? Do you visit book clubs as far away as we are? We are able to pay for gas. Thanks, J and T.

A: J and T. Thanks for your email! I'm blown away. Yes, I do present at book clubs all the time, but Fort Walton Beach is really a very long drive for us. I usually try to stick to the Miami area, though I have gone as far north as Palm Beach for a book club reading at Lynn University. However, if you keep loving my book the way you do and passing the word along to all your friends, I just might convince my wife that maybe we should make a trip up there. In fact, give me a call at 786-389-9263 or 305 586-6423.

Thanks for your support.

Preston

Money for the Cure

2008-08-19T09:40:00.000-07:00

Q: When you came to our class the other day, you mentioned something about gamblers' getting no sympathy. What did you mean? I enjoyed your classroom visit to my Reading class and your novel ALL OR NOTHING. It is the first complete novel I have read in ENGLISH since leaving Haiti four years ago. Studentfan

A: Yes, studentfan, I enjoyed that Saturday session with your Reading class. I was surprised and pleased to see you there because I have you in one of my English classes and you never mentioned that your Reading class was reading the novel. I'm glad you enjoyed the book.

What I meant by that comment was that most people have a certain amount of sympathy for those with serious substance abuse and addiction problems, more sympathy than they have for gamblers. Let me give you an example of what I mean.

Jane: So How's your uncle Mike?

Suszy: Well, you know, his cocaine problem overcame him again. They caught him breaking into a neighbor's house. He's in jail and we're trying to get a lawyer for him and we're trying to get the neighbor to drop the charges. He's really not a bad guy.

Jane: Poor guy. I'll keep him in my prayers.

Suszy: He tries, but he's hooked, you know?

Jane: Yeah. So sad. So how's your cousin Joe?

Suszy: That jerk! I never want to talk to him again. He set me up and borrowed a hundred dollars--he said it was for the rent, but my roommate says she saw him at the casino right after he had borrowed it from me. What a jerk!

Jane: Yeah, what a jerk! You just can't trust a gambler.

Or here's another way to look at it--

If you had to do one of the following, which would it be?

1) Mortgage the house to get your cocaine addicted brother out of jail?

2) Mortgage the house to clear up your gambling brother's finances?

Thanks,

Preston

A Trap for the Pure In Heart

2008-08-19T09:24:00.000-07:00

Q: Dear Preston, I haven't been to "the casino" since September 23, 2007.

In January, I filed Chapter 13 bankruptcy, in part because of the credit card debt I ran up by taking cash advances so I could play the slot machines.

Sometimes I get the itch. Sometimes I really want to play "Double Diamond Run," "Cleopatra" or "Hot Flashes," but I've somehow been able to resist. It's been very difficult lately, though. I've been wanting to go so I can win enough money to buy my friend a concert ticket for her birthday. One of my other friends talked me out of it, thankfully. Another friend thinks I should go and see if I can only gamble a "certain amount" and make sure I can't get more by leaving my ATM card at home.

Well, I just finished reading your book.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

S.

A: Thanks for your email, S (named after one of the characters in the novel, LOL), and thanks for reading ALL OR NOTHING. I hope that it helped in some way, though I know that the only “dependable” and “trusted” ways for a gambler to be helped are to seek it professionally from a mental health counselor or to go to GA—and even if you seek help in one of these manners, you will feel the itch for the rest of your life. Sadly, they can teach us how not to scratch, but they can’t teach us how not to itch.

Therefore, the friend who advises you not to return to the casino to “win” money to buy a concert ticket for someone you care about is right. What many fail to understand about us gamblers is that we are usually good people at heart—we have wonderfully generous and altruistic plans for what to do with the money once we win it. We want to save the world with all of that money, and we would, if we could just win it. The casino is a trap for the pure in heart. You go there to win money for a good cause, and instead you become addicted to the most dangerous vice there is: the vice of throwing your money to the winds for enjoyment. If you go to the casino to win money for that concert ticket, you will lose the money for your rent and for other essential things.

I have been a lucky gambler at times. I once went to the casino to win money to help bury a close family friend. Was God watching me? I hit big on the first machine I touched upon entering—I hit more than enough to bury her and then have a few hundred left over. Then as I was waiting for them to review my ID documents and print me the check, I fooled around with another machine, and hit again! This was not so much as the first time, about half as much—but it was still nice. This amount was small enough for them to give it to me in cash without checking my ID, which I did not have because they were still checking it for the big amount I had hit previously and was still waiting to be given the check for. Of course, I put this money back into the machines and hit again! I was on a roll that night. By the time they finally brought me my check, I had won almost as much in smaller increments on random machines. So that was a good night . . .

But the problem is that the few and far between nights like that helped to create in me the twisted logic known as “magical thinking”: i.e., when I need money, instead of working I will go get it from the casino. Thinking like that leads to disaster. I have too many examples of disastrous nights like that, as I am sure you have.

Our habit is not in the making of money or the winning of money—our habit is in the ritual of risking money. Winning encourages us to take more risks (because we incorrectly feel we are lucky); losing encourages us to take more risks (because our financial situation has been destroyed by our habit and we need to get our money back and ironically the only way to get it back is to . . . gamble more and harder).

But you know all of this already, I am sure.

And the friend who tells you to go to the casino to see if you can gamble only a small amount is in gross misunderstanding of your addictive condition. You are trying to see if you can control it . . . but we have already determined that you are a gambler and therefore cannot control it . . . furthermore, did you do anything in the interim to “learn” to control it?

Did you go to GA? Did you seek counseling? No?

So here is your answer: of course, you cannot control it. That is not control talking to you. That is simply the monkey on your back talking. That is your itch begging to be scratched. You will tell yourself any lie to get back into the casino—including, “I want to buy a gift for my friend,” or even worse, “It’s my money and I can do what I want with it.”

LOL

But it is not your money anymore . . . really, it is not. It is NOT your money.

You have already spent all of YOUR money. You are now spending borrowed money—money borrowed to save your life!

Money borrowed from credit cards. Money borrowed (I am sure) from friends. Money borrowed from bankruptcy (a program that, despite its name and connotation, is really a system of consolidating and repaying your debt).

YOUR money has already been spent—you are now spending money that you OWE to other people.

No, by law it is not your money, and you cannot do what you want with it (not legally anyway). But you will gamble anyway . . . we will gamble anyway, because we are gamblers and we are ill. We have the worst kind of illness, a mental illness that tells us lies like “all we need is self-control to stop gambling” and “we will save the world and buy concert tickets for our friends with the money we will win at the casino” and “it’s my money and I can do what I want with it.”

Here is what you need to do:

1) Stay away from the casino forever—get help from a program like GA so that you can stay away from the Dante’s inferno called casino.

2) Find a new kind of thrill. Fall in love. Write a book. Take up sky diving. Here is something you may not have noticed, S. See, now that you are not gambling you have a lot more free time—a lot more—gamblers spend countless HOURS a week in casinos—countless. See, casinos not only steal your money. They steal your life. One hour at a time. When was the last time your played with your children? When was the last time you hung out with an old friend? It steals your time--and time, unlike money, cannot be won back. Suddenly all of your children are grown and they are strangers to you. Suddenly all of your old friends have replaced you with other friends. Like the song says, "Time keeps on ticking, ticking, ticking . . . into the future."

So when you stop gambling you have all of this free time, S, and . . . if you do not fill it up, you WILL eventually end up back in the casino. So why not use that free time to start a business? Help a charity? Do self repairs on the house? Learn to play the piano? Learn a foreign language?

Quitting gambling gives you back your time, so use it, S, or gambling WILL take it back.

Thanks,

Preston

BOUNCE is my most autobiographical novel, though the protagonist is a female

2008-07-26T05:44:00.000-07:00

Q: I read your novel BOUNCE two years ago and it was great, I could not put it down. I thought you were a romance writer and read your story in Brown Sugar about the girl who fell in love with her brother-in-law. I wasn't sure I would like the gambling book because I do not know much about gambling and that world, but it is a great book, I am almost finished with it. The two books are different, but the style is the same. The gambling book has me turning pages like the romance book BOUNCE did. I really like your style and I want to know how you do it. What is your secret to making the characters in your book interesting?

A: Thank you. I am glad you mentioned BOUNCE and ALL OR NOTHING because those are two books that still astonish me when I read them. I am turning pages, saying to myself, "I wrote this? I wrote this? When? I don't remember writing this." I am very conscious of the other things that I have written. I can recall pretty much what I was thinking when I designed this chapter or the other, this character, this scene, chose this word. With BOUNCE and ALL OR NOTHING, there are times when it's almost like someone else wrote it. Those are two novels that I can just sit down and read and enjoy like a fan, though I am the author.

ALL OR NOTHING, of course, is about a character that I know well, a gambler, so I can turn off my brain and channel what I know about that world and cruise through the details, writing in a dreamlike state. I am a gambler, P is a gambler, the rest is easy.

BOUNCE is similar. I can't really explain it, but BOUNCE is the most autobiographical novel I have ever published . . . even though the protagonist is female.

Once upon a time, I was Cindique. I was a girl, er, boy, trapped in an abusive situation. My heart was elsewhere, but those roads were blocked to me too, only I was too young to recognize the CLOSED ROAD signs posted along the way. I had to live through the pain, the illusion of love that was really more abuse, but masked. I had to live through the pain. It was the only path that allowed growth for me. For Cindique.

So I closed my eyes and wrote, I became Cindique, I closed my eyes and wrote in a dreamlike state.

Thanks,

Preston

Wolf Girl 3

2008-07-19T17:22:00.000-07:00

Q: Did/do you use any reference books on writing? Are there any you
would recommend? (Or any novels you would recommend?) Wolfgirl.

A:
John Dufresne's "THE LIE THAT TELLS THE TRUTH."

Stephen King's "ON WRITING."

Ken Macrorie's "TELLING WRITING."

Janet Burroway (several texts on writing).

Bernays and Painter’s "WHAT IF?"

PRIZE STORIES: THE O. HENRY AWARDS.

BEST AMERICAN SHORT STORIES.

PUSHCART PRIZE STORIES.

The short works of John Cheever.

The short works of Flannery O'Connor.

The short works of Ray Carver, but especially the collections "WHERE I'M CALLING FROM" and "WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT LOVE."

Isaac Asimov's short stories, but especially "I, ROBOT" and the novels in the FOUNDATION TRILOGY.

Ray Bradbury's short stories, but especially "THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES," "R IS FOR ROCKET" and "S IS FOR SPACE."

Thanks,

Preston

Luck . . . Again

2008-07-19T15:57:00.000-07:00

Q: What lucky or coincidental things have happened to you in your life and maybe helped you to write you novel ALL OR NOTHING.

A: Please let this be the last luck/fate question. Please.

I believe in skill, not luck. I do not believe that things are pre-ordained or predestined and will not believe until someone shows me some hard evidence or makes a more convincing argument than any I have heard so far.

That being said . . .

1) At work, my office was the office of novelist James Lee Burke when he taught at my college. People are always saying to me, "What a coincidence. That is the same desk James Lee Burke sat at. You are destined for great things."

2) As concerns poker, I seem to have a lucky seat--seat 3. I have caught seven royal flushes in seat 3. Seat 7 is also lucky for me. I have caught 4 royal flushes in seat 7. In a ten-handed Texas Hold'em or Omaha Hi-lo game, both seat 3 and seat 7 are three seats away from the dealer. As far as I can recall, I have never caught a royal flush in any other seat.

3) I seem to have had a lucky friend. While at the casino in the swamp one night, I was losing my shirt. This guy walked in, sat down at the table, and said to me, "You look like you are having bad luck. I'm gonna give you some luck." Players often joke like that to each other. I few minutes later, I hit a royal flush. It had a nice jackpot attahced to it, so I tipped all of the players at the table as well as the dealer. My new lucky friend said to me, "I brought you luck. You should tip me more than you did the rest of them." I laughed and gave him another hundred.

The very next night, while at the casino up in Broward, I was losing my shirt. The lucky guy I had met down in the swamp came in. He was not seated at my table this time, but at a table next to mine. In fact, we were back to back. I joked ove my shoulder to him, "If you are so lucky, bring me some more luck." He joked back, "I'm doing my best, bro." A few minutes later, I caught another royal flush. When they paid me the jackpot, I tipped everybody at my table and then turned around and tipped my lucky friend, too.

Every time we saw each other, we would joke around about how he brought me luck. It was kind of funny, really. And on nights when he was in the casino, I tended to win. I made note of this . . . coincidence. One night as I was leaving the casino, I found him hanging out in the parking lot. He had lost all of his money, he was afraid to go home to his wife, he had bills to play--blah, blah, blah--typical gambler spiel. What he really wanted was money to gamble with.

I had won a couple hundred that night and so I split it with him, but he said, "I am your good luck, bro. You should give me more money. Give me everything you won because I need it. Then go back inside and use the luck you get from me to win something really big."

This was complete BS, and I knew it, but I had been lucky with him. So I gave him all of my winnings from that night, then went back inside and sat down at the poker table. As I recall it, I could not seem to LOSE a hand that night. Before I knew it, my chips amounted to way more than the $200 or so that I had given him. Then a few hours later I hit a royal flush for about ten grand.

When I saw my lucky friend again a few weeks later, I pulled out a few hundreds and stuck them in his hand. He was suprised because he had not asked me for anything. He said, "What's this for?" I told him about the royal flush I had hit the night I had met him in the parking lot.

We laughed and laughed. "What do you think it means?" he asked.

"Well, I don't believe in luck, so I have no idea what it means," I told him.

And he said, "Well, believe this. I am moving out of town. I got a new job up in New York. I'm leaving tomorrow. Let's see how you do when I'm gone."

I laughed and told him, "I'll do just fine."

We slapped five and I never saw him again. I guess he moved to New York.

I also have never hit another royal flush.

4) After my divorce, I told my mother that I would never marry again. I had just started my new job that week. I had left the public schools for the community college. I was looking forward to making money and being single for the rest of my life. What need had I of marriage? I already had two kids from my ex, and I did not desire any further "marital torment," as I described it to my mother. I meant it. I was adamant about this thing.

The next day at work, my new boss, who, to my delight, seemed to like me very much, asked me to do some extra work (over time, more money!) in the writing lab at our satellite campus in Hialeah. Well, I was going through a divorce and needed the money, so I said, eagerly, "Yes."

So after work, I went to do my part-time night gig at the Hialeah Center, and upon meeting the woman who ran the lab felt a bit of the old lightning bolt. When I got home that night, I told my mother, "I just met the woman I am going to marry."

My mother could only nod her head, smiling at her fickle son.

Fickle, my big fat butt. My wife and I will have been married seventeen years in October.

In one of my many chats with my colleague and fellow writer poet/novelist Geoffrey Philp, I mentioned how I met my wife. I said, "If Elaine hadn't sent me over there, we never would have met."

And he said, "Elaine put me and my wife together too. She was in charge of the labs back then and assigned us to work together."

I forget who our other colleague was, but she overheard us and exclaimed, "Elaine put me and my husband together, too!"

5)

This is the one that makes me sad, but here goes. My mother passed away a year ago.

On the anniversary of her passing, I kept seeing three 7s. I saw them on a license plate. I saw them on a billboard. I saw them painted on the side of a truck. Then I even saw three Zs on something, but the bottom was obscured and the three Zs looked more like three 7s.

That night in the Play-4, the number was 7773, which was mother mother's phone number.

The next night 1972 came up boxed in the Play-4. My brother Anthony, who was not at the funeral and for all intents and purpoes is estranged from the family, was born in 1972.

I told my other brothers about it. It freaked them out.

6) One day I was playing Hold'em, and my cards were bad. Bad. For about three hours I was getting nothing but crappy hole cards. So I said to myself, I don't care what kind of crap I get in the hole, I am going to play the next hand. When I got my next hand, I looked at my hole cards: 2, 9. More crap. But I kept my promise and I played bad cards. The flop came 2, 2, 2. This meant that I now had four 2s, an unbeatable hand. Amazing.

7) I once picked up a hitchhiker during a very bad storm. She was a tall young woman with a dainty umbrella. When she got into my car, she said, "Do you smoke?"

I said, "No."

She said, "Do you get high? You mind if I get high?"

What kind of girl was this? She looked to be maybe 16. She had tattoos and piercings all over her face and arms. Her hair was cut short like a man's. As the rain and wind pelted thec car, I said, "No. I do not get high, and you will not get high in my car, either. Ma'am, would you just tell me where you'd like me to drop you off."

"No problem," she smirked, brushing me off as old school, out of touch, a square, a geezer. "The house is in Opa-Locka. You know where that is, pops?"

"Yes."

I knew where it was. Opa-Locka is not the safest neighborhood in Miami. In fact, it is reputed to be one of the most dangerous. I grew up in Opa-Locka back when it wasn't so bad.

When she gave me the address, I was in for another surprise. It was my old address! This girl lived in my old house.

I told her this, and her attitude changed. She became friendlier, more respectful. I told her which room used to be mine and she said, "That's my room now. Me and my little sister's!"

When we got to her house, the rain had abated, and we were both in for another surprise--she more than I. I spotted a man standing at the open door of her house and asked her who he was. She said, "My dad."

But he looked familiart. A little taller, a little stouter, but the same sleepy eyes and fat cheeks. I told her, "His name is __________ __________, right?"

She said, "Yes! How do you know him?"

"We were in fourth grade together. We sat next to each other in fourth grade."

The tattooed girl said to me as I was getting out of the car to go greet my old buddy, "Don't tell him what I asked you about getting high, okay? Please don't tell him."

I winked at her. It would be our secret.

Wolf Girl 2

2008-07-19T15:54:00.001-07:00

Q: When did you publish your first novel and how did you feel about it? Wolfgirl.

A: I self-published my first novel HOOCHIE MAMA in 2001 and I felt great
about it.

I had another book that was supposed to come out that year,
CHURCHBOYS AND OTHER SINNERS (Carolina Wren Press, 2003), but there
were delays at the publishing house and so the book was put on hold.

I self-published that first book because I was tired of delays. I wanted
control. I wanted to see my name in print. I wanted to feel good. I
wanted to dance on the ceiling. When it came out, I danced on the
ceiling.

HOOCHIE MAMA is self-published, but it is well edited and it
says what I wanted it to say. I got wh at I wanted--control.

Thanks,

Preston

Wolf Girl 1

2008-07-19T15:44:00.000-07:00

Q: What experience or knowledge is required to do your job? Wolfgirl.

A: By my "job," I presume you mean "Writer" or "Novelist," as opposed to
teacher/professor of English.

As far is knowledge is concerned, a writer must have lived and experienced the world. I once heard that by the time you reach16, you have at least one full-length book in you--your autobiography.

Writers go through life with their eyes open.

Writers pay attention to everything. They are fascinated by life and
humans and culture and conflict--they want to know what makes people
tick.

Also, a writer must be a good reader. A writer must love
reading. Many great writers never completed a formal education--but
they had read probably every book they could get their hands on.
Writers must be readers, but of course this only makes sense. Writers
are in the business of putting words on the page, in the business of
making books--why then should it be a surprise that they love books?

The best way to learn how to write is to read. A writer must always be
reading.

Thanks Wolfgirl,

Preston

A Page from the Diary of Fate 2

2008-07-13T09:51:00.000-07:00

Man oh man, have I been getting some heat for my blog on luck!

Some emailers are saying "what about my lucky hat?" "What about how I met my wife? If I hadn't been at that party that night . . ." "What about Bob Marley? If he hadn't been a welder on the same job with rising singer Desmond Dekker when Desmond got hit in the eye and couldn't peform that night at the show, he may never have gotten his shot." "What if I had folded that night? I had nothing but 2,7. But I kept it, I did not fold, and the flop came 2,2,2. I won my first million that night because of that good luck."

Let me put it another way. There is no luck that controls things. There is only what we call "luck" after a thing has happened. In short, there is only "what will be will be."

Think of it like this. There are two giant wheels spinning independently of each other. Each wheel has a thousand points of contact. Most of these points of contact have CRAP marked on them. In fact, Only 20 out of a possible 1000 have GOOD STUFF marked on them. If your two wheels spin for you and you get GOOD STUFF on BOTH wheels when they stop, then you win. Most of the time you will get CRAP/CRAP. You will often get CRAP on one wheel and GOOD STUFF on the other. Often you will get GOOD STUFF on one wheel and CRAP on the other. It is very exciting, but you do not win. Close, but no cigar. Sometimes you will get the magical, wonderful, amazing GOOD STUFF/GOOD STUFF. When this happens, we say that you are lucky.

Well, yes. You are lucky because it was your turn to spin when the wheel came to GOOD STUFF/GOOD STUFF. You did not earn it through hard work. It was simply your turn and the wheel was ready to hit. You did not deserve to win it any more than anyone else who had played and lost. You are called "lucky" and you feel as though you have been chosen by the gods, you and only you. But luck only means "what will be will be," not a pre-ordainment. Luck is not a compliment to your talent and skill--it is a comment on what happened.

But you will say, "There were only 20 winners on each wheel out of a thousand. The odds of winning were therefore 400 out of a million, or 1 out of 2,500." Yes the odds were great, and so then luck should mean, "I have no special quality, I am simply the one who spun when the wheel hit. I did nothing to earn this but spin as did all of the others before me."

But we take luck to be a quality attached to the person--he is lucky. We argue Backwards and say, "But who put him in that spot at that time? Who did that? Who made him play on this certain day? Who set the wheels to hit just when he was playing."

We try to make luck a function of preordination. We anthropormorphize luck. Luck is a creature, a sentient being that controls what will be. We make luck a deity, a god.

But luck is not a god. Luck is, actually, the absence of a god.

Consider the following exchange:

1

"So John, congratulations on your tournament victory. You are quite a skilled player."

"No, Roger, I am not skilled at all. I hardly even understand the game. It was all luck."

2

"So John, congratulations on your tournament victory. I could tell from the way you played that you have no great understanding of the game. Clearly God was on your side, guiding your play."

"No, Roger, I doubt God had anything to do with it. I was just lucky."

Luck is the absence of skill or a god. Luck is a factor of probability. Luck, in fact, is about science.

There is a mathematical formula to represent how often our two spinning wheels will land on GOOD STUFF/GOOD STUFF. If you spin 2500 times, you are likely to hit GOODS STUFF/GOOD STUFF once. This does not mean that you will hit it. It simply means that we can look at every spin of the two wheels and count how many times GOOD STUFF/GOOD STUFF shows up, and that number is 1 out of 2500.

How do gamblers use probability?

Let's say the odds of hitting a royal flush are 1 out of 250,000 (I don't have the numbers in front of me, but this ratio is not too far off); this means that if you are holding a JACK, QUEEN, KING, and ACE of hearts against an opponent who is betting like crazy and you suspect he has a full house, you should fold your cards. Why not wait for the TEN of hearts and your royal flush? Because the odds are pretty good that you will not get it.

Now a bad gambler, or a brave one, or a desperate one, or one who is so rich that losing money means nothing to him/her will stay in the hand hoping to catch that TEN of hearts to complete the royal flush. And sometimes they do catch it.

To date, I have caught 11 royal flushes. This is no testament to my poker-playing skill; I was at different times a brave gambler (I knew the odds, but I defied them), a desperate gambler (I knew the odds, but I was so broke I had no choice but to play and pray that I won so that I could get my money back), a bad gambler (I had no idea what the odds were and no idea that a good gambler would have folded in this situation).

A poker player's skill comes from knowing the odds of catching this hand or that, and knowing the tells and tendencies of the other players at the game so as to determine whether they are bluffing or not.

See, most winning hands of poker played at a table with "good" players are never revealed. A player who gets ACE/ACE in the hole will bet a certain way and usually the other good players will fold, sensing he has something very strong--it matters not that the player holding the crappy 2,7 actually would have won if he had stayed in because the flop, turn, and river cards were going to be 7, 7, 7. Only a bad player would stay in with crap like that--and if the bad player stays in, he/she will beat the ACE/ACE and win. But the other good players at the table will grumble disparagingly, "He/she got lucky. What a bad player. No skill at all. Just blind luck."

Not God, not skill, not fate--just blind luck. Good gamblers don't like luck very much. Luck is what the amateurs need to beat the better players.

Luck is not a good thing. Luck is an un-earned scientific thing that the skilled have to overcome when matched up with the un-skilled.

But what about Bob Marley?

Okay, let's leave our hypothetical casino for a moment, though the two giant wheels are spinning out here in the real world too.

The story as told to me goes like this: A young Bob Marley was working as a welder alongside another young singer Desmond Dekker (REMEMBER THAT FAMOUS SONG, The Israelites?), who had an upcoming gig that night but hurt his eye so badly that day on the job that he could not perform. Bob Marley piped up something like, "Don't worry, boss. I can sing too. I can do it." The rest is history.

Here is a case where preparation, hard work, and skill meet opportunity (or mathematical probability). Call it luck if you will, but I will argue that this is no deity pulling the strings. Marley, though a young man, had been singing for years and mastering his craft. He took the job as a welder so that he could eat, but he was in his mind a singer looking for an opportunity.

In life, opportunities are not so numerous as lack of opportunity, but they do exist. Let's say there will be 20 opportunities on a spinning wheel of 1000.

If that spinning wheel offers an opportunity to, say, the non-musical Preston L. Allen, that is like a GOOD STUFF/CRAP spin. It can't help me. I'm a writer, not a singer. I help my co-worker Desmond Dekker find some ice to put on his eye, and I keep on welding. That's it.

But if that spinning wheel lands for Bob Marley, then we have a GOOD STUFF/GOOD STUFF hit and Marley will make the best of this opportunity. He had nothing to do with this opportunity, true, but he can take advantage of it because he has been preparing most of his life for it.

I know, I know, you have objections:

You say, but what if Dekker hadn't hurt his eye? Marley, I'm sure, would have kept spinning that wheel. Maybe he strikes up a friendship with Dekker and breaks into the business that way.

But what if Marley had not taken a job as a welder? He would have taken a job as busboy and kept right on spinning--opportunities exist.

And Marley will find one of those opportunities, and if he never finds one, he will become a very talented, very avante garde teacher of music in Jamaica, unheard of by most, but beloved by his students, especially those with a little rebellion in their blood.

We can't always create or find opportunities, but we can work hard on our craft, work hard at improving our skills. Then when opportunity meets preparation, we are ready to rock.

At that point, you can call it luck, fate, God, or whatever you will as you soar to the top.

The big wheels just keep on spinning.

Preston

Religion, Politics, Sex

2008-07-13T06:42:00.000-07:00

Q: I read your collection, "Churchboys and Other Sinners" a year ago for a graduate class at the University of Florida and thorougly enjoyed it. The Elwyn Stories in that book are wonderful and should be made into a novel or even a movie. Those stories perfectly and humorously capture what it feels like to grow up as a fundamentalist, Evangelical, or Pentecostal in America; believe me, personally, I know what I am talking about. Been there, done that. And yet, the stories are not judgmental or condescending to religion and religious folk. All of the other stories in the collection are excellent too, but I especially like "Prince William Blows Good," as it recasts the Oedipus myth in a modern musical context, "Get Some," "Is Randy Roberts There?" and "Jack Move." The story I take issue with is "C Plus Baptist Virgin," a certifiable masterpiece of the history of racial politics in America. The message of the tale of a black boy and white girl locked into their own "boxes" was not lost on me, but you claimed in an earlier blog to be a writer who does not cover the topics of politics, religion, and sex. Explain that contradiction, sir. I have ordered "All or Nothing" at Amazon and can't wait to read it. Congratulations on your NY Times review.

A: Thanks for your email.

I repeat: I do not discuss religion, politics, and sex. I do not discuss religion because most people I have encountered, nost friends even, are incapable of carrying on a religious argument with objectivity.

When I used to participate in religious discussions back in the Rawlings Hall dorms at UF, it always boiled down to a question of faith. One side would say, "This is what I believe and therefore it must be correct," and the other side would say, "This is what I believe and therefore it must be correct."

That is not an argument--that is a shouting match. Whoever has the biggest mouth, or fists, will win.

When I argue, I have this bad habit of listening carefully to the other side and then posing challenges to the other side's assertions. Many people seemed to take these challenges personally; I was attacking their arguments, but they reacted as though I were attacking their person. Many feelings were hurt. I would rather not hurt feelings, so I do not discuss religion.

I smile a lot when others have religious discussions around me, but I resist the urge to participate no matter how strong it be. I have come to see that, with few exceptions, no matter what my friends' religious beliefs are, they are still very good friends and I am fortunate to have them.

Questions of virgin birth, divinity of Christ, the rapture, water baptism versus sprinkling, Sunday worship versus the Sabbath, creation versus evolution, the fallibility of bible texts, the existence of heaven, predestination, women in the pulpit, gays in the pulpit, Christianity, Judaism, Islam, which is the RIGHT religion?--these are questions I have no burning desire to have answered. I am happy not knowing.

But the truth, of course, is that these questions were answered for me long ago when I was a child and too young to resist and therefore they became part of my core beliefs.

The truth is that these questions were answered for YOU, also, a long time ago when you were too young to resist.

Thus, when we argue these things, we become like children arguing. Even though it might be fun, I would rather not have a childish argument with you. I was punched in the face a lot when arguing as a child. The bigger kid always won because he was, well, bigger.

When I became a bigger kid, the little kids lost many arguments to me because I was bigger and could punch them, and because of something else--I was . . . bigger. Little kids naturally look up to bigger kids. Little kids naturally look up to their parents, who are the biggest kids of all. Parents are the ones who give their kids . . . religion.

When you oppose someone in a religious argument, you are opposing their parents, you are calling their parents stupid and dummies and wrong and not smart, you are laughing at their parents. Thus, they feel like punching you. I would feel like punching you too if you made fun of my mom.

The easist way to make fun of my mom? Oppose me in a religious argument.

I do not discuss politics because [[see above argument for religion and substitute "politics" for "religion"; substitute "punch in the face" for "chase you off my porch with a shotgun"; substitute "punch in the face" for "tell you that if you don't like the way things are done around here, long-haired freak, then maybe you should just go somewhere else, like Russia maybe"]]. My only political argument is that we vote anonymously in a private booth and that we vote often.

I do not discuss sex because it can be considered impolite. It can be considered rude [[see Bernie Mac at a celebrity roast for Obama]]. It can be inappropriate, especially if there are children in the room. It can embarrass people. I don't like to embarrass people. I don't like to be embarrassed.

So there you have it. I do not discuss religion, politics, and sex.

But I do write about them . . . a lot.

In fact, check out my erotic stories in Brown Sugar 1, 2, 3, 4, and Wanderlust: Erotic Travel Tales. Sex? OMG, did I write about sex in those books. I remember running into a library one afternoon to use their computers to check my email for one urgent matter or another and while I was handing the librarian my ID, I noticed that she was reading Brown Sugar (#1). Naughty girl.

I said to her, "You like that book, huh?"

The naughty girl blushed and put a hand over the cover. "It's okay," she said, obviously embarrassed.

I could not resist. I said, "Have you read my story in there yet?"

She said, "You have a story in here?"

"The first one. 'Nadine's Husband'."

"Oh my god! That one is so hot. But you . . . sex, you write about it? You?" She eyed me. Baffled.

"Yes, I look like a college professor complete with tie, briefcase, shiny shoes. and middle-aged spread. I may not look hot, but I write hot."

She grinned.

After that, we chatted and she signed me up to do a presentation for her reading group.

Sex? Me? Write about it? Yes. Double yes.

In fact, the fun thing about the good little churchboy Elwyn in "Churchboys and Other Sinners" is that he is involved in a clandestine affair with the widow Morrisohn. Say Amen, brother, and drop your drawers.

The collection is not named "Churchboys and Other Sinners" for nothing--it explores a number of religous themes, and as you pointed out, political ones too.

No reviewer has written about it yet, but while the focus of my novel "All or Nothing" is gambling addiction it does have its steamy moments too.

I am a writer. It is my job to explore sex, politics, religion and other important issues in my work. This is what writers do.

And if these themes get people to talking, or arguing, there will be fewer if any punches thrown because the safe context of the fictional world of the short story or the novel provides a medium for objectivity that would not otherwise exist. In other words, "I am not talking about your religious beliefs, I am talking about Elwyn's."

Get the trick? It is safer to make fun of Elwyn's mom, than to make fun of mine. It is safer to ogle the topless hookers in the Vegas of "All or Nothing" than to discuss your peculiar bedroom habits to the crowd at the office potluck.

By the way, emailer, I am putting the finishing touches on the Elwyn/Sister Morrisohn novel as we speak.

Finally, "C Plus Baptist Virgin" is a hat trick--mixing politics (as you pointed out)with both sex and religion (as you can see from its title--Its original title was "Thomas Jefferson and the C Plus Baptist Virgin").

[[By the way, Elwyn and Sister Morrisohn are not technically Fundamentalists, Pentecostal, or Evangelical--they are members of a related sect called Holiness that has been around nearly 200 years--but you can call them fundamentalists if you like.]]

Thanks for you support and your great email! What class was it at UF that used the book?

Go gators!

Preston

Writer's Block

2008-07-09T02:39:00.000-07:00

Q: I haven't had time to write, when I do write I have been re-writing some old stories. But now my head seems empty. How do I get charged up again? Mr. M.

A: Hey, Mr. M. It is always good to hear from you. Oh, a little bit of the old writer's block, eh? Groan. Well, first of all, you know that I do not believe in writer's block. Somewhere on the internet is an essay I wrote about that topic a few years ago.

Nevertheless, Here are some things you can do:

1) Work on something else, entirely. Then when you feel the juice, come back to the old thing you are blocked on.

2) Read. When I get up early in the morning and I am just not able to look at the saaaaaame manuscript again, I read. I read my old work. I read someone else's work. I read a novel I've been meaning to get to. I proofread . . . away from the computer . . . with pen or pen. I read the dictionary. I read the newspaper or aol blurbs. Sometimes I end up reading for three or four weeks straight, until I feel the juice. See, I get up at 4 or 5 every morning to write--but write does not always mean "write." Reading is an essential part of the writing process.

3) Write. Write a list. Write several lists. I love lists. I write a list of things that smell. Things that taste peculiar. Things that sound creepy. Things that sound like a car engine. A wish list for my dying friend. A list of ten things I never want anyone to find out about me. Things that feel like a woman's breasts (40-Year Old Vigin) . . . list of interesting verbs . . . believe me when I say that these lists often turn into ideas for stories or that they help to layer the stories I am working on. For example, in a scene I was working on a couple of months ago, that list of "ten things I never want anyone to find out about me" became a crucial element in a plot.

4) Interview your characters. I creat a list of interview questions and then I pick a minor character, usually, and interview him/her. These inteviews almost never show up in the fiction, but they are great at helping me get to the heart of what makes my people tick.

5) Specific edits--go back into the story and question each adverb--do I need it or not? Question each adjective--do I need it or not? Each "and"--do I need it or not? Each dash--do I need it or not?

6) If I absolutely must get the thing done, I muscle it out. I pick up that pen (figuratively speaking, since I actually write on the computer), and I write. I write my way through the writer's block.

This is my usual method, since I do not really believe in writer's block. I write.

I do not care of I write brilliant stuff or crap--I set myself a page limit goal, and then I go for it.

Sometimes I write stuff like "I am so blocked right now that this car chase scene looks just like any other car chase scene I have ever written, and it has gotten me to wondering why I have so many car chase scenes in my stories. This is not film, this is prose fiction, but I have been watching so many movies that it is affecting my writing. I am no longer experiencing the world--I am viewing the world through a director's eyes--I am becoming cliched in the way I see the world--just like Thomaso, roaring down the I-4 after his wife and her lover in the Camaro he borrowed from the pimple-faced teen next door. Now he realizes that borrowing the car from that kid was a dumb move. The kid is gonna know why he borrowed it, to follow his wife. The kid is gonna tell his mother, Mildred "ears and mouth" Gomez. Mildred Gomez is gonna tell everbody else. The ear and mouth tell all . . ." and like that I come out of the block.

Once we free ourselves to begin writing honestly, and not forcing ourselves to be brilliant, the block goes away. Our muse is attracted to honesty, not our pomposity. She comes when we are being true to our pen.

Hemingway, I have heard, had this technique--he would begin by writing one true thing on the page--one single true sentence. "I hate my mother." "Blue is a common color for hats." "The sun also rises." And then he would ponder this true sentence whatever it was, and it would beckon the muse.

Be honest. Do not become full of self. Do not see yourself as a great writer. See yourself as an honest man telling his story honestly. The block, which never existed anyhow, will go away.

Keep writing because that is what a writer does. A writer writes.

Thanks for you email, Mr. M.

Preston

You Are P

2008-07-07T18:03:00.000-07:00

Q: Your blog is hilarious. You sound just like the character P in your novel. You are P, admit it.

A: I am not. I swear it. Seriously.

Preston

Are You Anti Gambling?

2008-07-07T17:18:00.000-07:00

Q: Are you anti-gambling? Do you wish there were no casinos? In your other blog, you attack the idea of a state-run lottery.

A: Am I anti-gambling?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

No, I am an addict. Therefore, I am pro-gambling. I wish I could gamble. I wish I were gambling right now. The problem is that gambling, for me, is destructive. [[Is there such a thing as "constructive" gambling?]] Therefore, I pray that I never ever see the inside of a casino again. I pray this everyday.

But the state-run lottery . . . well, look at it like this--

If you are a crack dealer and you need to make more money, all you have to do is raise the price of crack.

If you run a state lottery and you need to make more money, all you have to do is raise the price of gambling: create numbers-games and scratch-off games that take in more money and pay out less.

Like, for example, add $2 or $3 bucks to the price of the lottery ticket with the enticement that if the player wins, he/she will get an extra 10 or 25 million dollars added on to the prize [[the 1 in 13 million odds to win doesn't change at all, just the price to play--from 1 buck to 2 or 3 bucks, suckers!]]

If you are a crack dealer and you need to make more money, all you have to do is find more customers: children are the future--pass out free samples at the junior high.

If you run a state lottery and you need to make more money, all you have to do is find more addicted customers: children are the future--advertise in front of the kiddies--as soon as they turn 18, they're as addicted already as their parents.

If you are a crack dealer and you need to make more money, all you have to do is make your old customers increase their consumption of the product: I have no idea how a crack dealer would accomplish this feat. But a state running a lottery--

If you run a state lottery and you need to make more money, all you have to do is make your old addicted customers increase their consumption of the product: create games that are more addictive (check out the newest scratch-offs--they are not only expensive but they have lots and lots of bells and whistles to keep you excited as you scratch); create games that can be played more often (now the Cash-3 and Play-4 can be drawn TWICE a day--Fantasy 5 can be drawn 7 times a week--Mega Money can be drawn twice a week--and the lottery is also played twice a week.

Get the picture?

To earn millions in revenue, the state is pushing a drug called gambling on its addicted citizens--and pushing it hard. But the same state is also spending millions to "cure" its addicted citizens.

But then the same state is finding ways to increase the number of addicted citizens and also to make them MORE addicted because the state needs to earn more revenue.

This is crazy. Somewhere in there is a dog endlessly chasing its tail. Somebody stop him please!

Figure out what you are, oh great state. Are you my pusher or are you my saviour?

I am a sick degenerate gambler and so I love the lottery with every ounce of my being, but even a wastrel such as I can see that the state should be in the business of curing those plagued with a vice, and not in the business of increasing their dependence on it.

And people, please stop asking me gambling questions. I'm drooling all over my good shirt.

Preston

A Direct Appeal

2008-07-06T07:00:00.001-07:00

Thanks to all of you who have emailed me questions and comments. I like the direction this blog has taken, and I owe it all to you.

Now I'd like to make a direct appeal: please go out and purchase a copy of my book ALL OR NOTHING and write a review for me on Amazon.com. It really is a great book. I promise you will enjoy it.

The book has received rave reviews from the New York Times, Publishers Weekly, Kirkus Review, and Library Journal among others.

Get your copy today! Support living, breathing writers!

Thanks,

Preston
______________________________

New York Times: "As with Frederick and Steven Barthelme's disarming gambling memoir, Double Down (1999), the chief virtue of All or Nothing is its facility in enlightening nonbelievers, showing how this addiction follows recognizable patterns of rush and crash, but with a twist—the buzz is in the process, not the result. 'That's what people don't understand about gamblers,' P explains. 'We gamble to gamble. We play to play. We don't play to win.'

"As a cartographer of autodegradation, Allen takes his place on a continuum that begins, perhaps, with Dostoyevsky’s “Gambler,” courses through Malcolm Lowry’s “Under the Volcano,” William S. Burroughs’s “Junky,” the collected works of Charles Bukowski and Hubert Selby Jr., and persists in countless novels and (occasionally fabricated) memoirs of our puritanical, therapized present. Like Dostoyevsky, Allen colorfully evokes the gambling milieu — the chained (mis)fortunes of the players, their vanities and grotesqueries, their quasi-philosophical ruminations on chance. Like Burroughs, he is a dispassionate chronicler of the addict’s daily ritual, neither glorifying nor vilifying the matter at hand."

Library Journal: "Told without preaching or moralizing, the facts of P's life express volumes on the destructive power of gambling. This is strongly recommended and deserves a wide audience; an excellent choice for book discussion groups."

Publishers Weekly: "The well-written novel takes the reader on a chaotic ride as P chases, finds and loses fast, easy money. Allen reveals how addiction annihilates its victims and shows that winning isn't always so different from losing."

Kirkus Review: "A gambler's hands and heart perpetually tremble in this raw story of addiction.

"We gamble to gamble. We play to play. We don't play to win." Right there, P, desperado narrator of this crash-'n'-burn novella, sums up the madness. A black man in Miami, P has graduated from youthful nonchalance (a '79 Buick Electra 225) to married-with-a-kid pseudo-stability, driving a school bus in the shadow of the Biltmore. He lives large enough to afford two wide-screen TVs, but the wife wants more. Or so he rationalizes, as he hits the open-all-night Indian casinos, "controlling" his jones with a daily ATM maximum of $1,000. Low enough to rob the family piggy bank for slot-machine fodder, he sinks yet further, praying that his allergic 11-year-old eat forbidden strawberries—which will send him into a coma, from which he'll emerge with the winning formula for Cash 3 (the kid's supposedly psychic when he's sick). All street smarts and inside skinny, the book gives readers a contact high that zooms to full rush when P scores $160,000 on one lucky machine ("God is the God of Ping-ping," he exults, as the coins flood out). The loot's enough to make the small-timer turn pro, as he heads, flush, to Vegas to cash in. But in Sin City, karmic payback awaits. Swanky hookers, underworld "professors" deeply schooled in sure-fire systems to beat the house, manic trips to the CashMyCheck store for funds to fuel the ferocious need—Allen's brilliant at conveying the hothouse atmosphere of hell-bent gaming.

Fun time in the Inferno."

A Page from the Diary of Fate

2008-07-06T05:40:00.000-07:00

Q: You wrote about this before but I just want to be clear. Is there suh a thing as luck? How do you define it? How do you define it in your novels? Is P lucky? Are you lucky?

A: Some people define luck as a magical force that governs the dice as well as one's life. One's "luck" is the same as one's "fate." For example, Bubba is lucky because he is the healthy, handsome firstborn son of a billionaire. Bubba becomes unlucky when he drowns in the family swimming pool at age 6. As "fate" would have it, Bubba died young. We say that Bubba was unlucky, unfortunate, ill-fated . . .

It is clear to me that this kind of fate or luck, regardless of what we call it, is a kind of deity that controls all--it is the deity of what will be will be; it is the deity of what is.

But when many, many bad things happen to us, we feel especially unfortunate, or unlucky, or ill-fated, or "cursed."

Bubba2 recalls a day when his money was short, his piece of crap car was not running, his other piece of crap car was not running, he had no means to pay a mechanic or to rent a car, he needed to get to work for an important meeting, he was in college and needed to get to class after work for an exam, his cable and water had been turned off that morning--did I mention already that he was short on cash? Actually, he was overdrawn at the bank, so he was shorter than short--he was negative. Bubba2 had nowhere to turn. So much bad luck. He felt cursed.

Bubba2 got down on his knees and prayed . . . to whom?

He prayed to the deity that controls what will be. In Bubba2's mind, the universe is controlled/ordered by a sentient being who can be appealed to. In other words, prayer and supplication to this deity can tip the universe in one's favor--it can turn one's bad luck into good.

Bubba3 is sitting at a poker table. He has lost all of his money except for the thousand he has put into this last pot. In other words, Bubba3 does not have a penny left, not in his pocket, not in his bank account, not in the world. But the pot has $10,000 in it. Bubba3 is holding aces. His opponent is holding kings. The dealer has flopped an ace and two spades--three aces for Bubba3! Bubba3 is in the lead. Bubba3's opponent can only win if the dealer puts four spades out there to give him a flush, which will beat Bubba3. On the next card, the dealer puts out the third spade. One more card to go. Any random card and Bubba3 wins. But if it is a spade, Bubba3 loses.

Bubba3 is praying for . . . luck?

But this is the deity of what will be. If it will be a spade, then it will be a spade. If it will not be a spade, then it will not be a spade.

If it is not a spade, then Bubba3 will win and be called lucky.

If it is a spade, then Bubba3 will lose and be called unlucky.

There is no luck. There is no luck, the defied kind. There is no good luck. There is no bad luck. There is simply what will be.

The great thing about gambling is that it delineates in a highly readable fashion what will be. Over and over and over again. Each spin of the wheel says this is what it is. This is what it is not. Each flip of the cards is a page from the diary of fate. This is what it is. This is what it is not.

Gamblers sit all day reading their fate, not controlling it, but reading it . . . this is what happened . . . this is what did not happen. Some things they read are good. Some things they read are bad.

They can hope and pray all they want, but they will get the truth a second after the other player shows his/her cards.

Luck and bad luck, then, can only be determined after the play has played. "Luck" and "bad luck" are titles they affix to decribe the sum total of events that have already happened. Thus, "luck" and "bad luck" don't really exist in the way people think--as predictors of what will happen. They are desciptors of what just happened.

Nevertheless, in your parlance, I can say that I am not/was not a "lucky" gambler. I played what I played and lost more than I won.

P was not a "lucky" gambler.

Most gamblers are not lucky.

The laws of probability, a subject I will perhaps tackle later on, say that the "house" games gamblers play will most of the time result in a loss for the gambler and a win for the house. Thus, all gamblers who play slot machines and roulette are likely to lose. This is not luck. This is a plan. This is a computer program.

But when you win at the slots, you "feel" lucky.

Well, it certainly is not skill that earned you the win, but is it really luck? Can you take this so-called luck and do it . . . again?

You are not lucky, no. But what will be will be.

Thanks,

Preston

The Man Who Would Be Woman

2008-06-30T12:19:00.000-07:00

Q: I agree with the "Foreword Magazine" reviewer who described your book as "scary" good. All or Nothing is a rare book in that the reader is not urged on by a plot twist but by a perverse desire to see what happens to the book's protagonist next. I agree with the blogger who says the book "reminds of John Rechy's City of Night." Now John Rechy was a sometimes gay hustler writing about gay hustling, and you are an admitted gambler writing about gambling. Do you think your book is scary good because you are a gambler writing as a gambler, or because you are simply a good writer?

A: This sounds like a trick question, but I will take the bait, if that is what it is, because I am a big fan of anyone who calls my work "Scary" good.

When I write, I promise my reader that I will put 100% of myself into the piece. Yes, writing as P was easy for me because I am familiar with that environment. I never wanted for material; in fact, my editor and I had to cut a large portion of the book to get it to work the way we wanted. Yes, I am (was) a male, black gambler. I know that life. I know that voice. I know P. In many ways I am P.

But I am not a short, sexy Dominican woman abused and stalked by her dangerous ex-husband, as is Cindique the protagonist in my novel BOUNCE--another convincing, "scary" good novel, I am told by its readers. No one ever confused me with that book's protagonist--instead, I heard, "You write so well from the point of view of a woman. Are you gay?" which I found to be both weird and offensive, though I think they were trying to pay me a compliment [[only a woman or a gay man can write well from the point of view of a woman--which is a very strange and illogical presumption if you think about it--because the writer KNOWS every character in his/her novel, even those of the opposite sex]].

Which leads me to one of my most popular ("Scary" good) short stories, "Is Randy Roberts There?", which can be found in my collection CHURCHBOYS AND OTHER SINNERS--again, I am not a tall, sexy African American woman as Monique the troubled protagonist in that one is. But see, I AM Monique and Cindique, too, because they were born in my head and I am the writer who pens their stories. I am not a woman, but I know my female protagonists and know them well.

In fact, long before the novel ALL OR NOTHING, I was developing quite a reputation as the man who would be woman. My stories in Carol Taylor's BROWN SUGAR anthologies were all convincing "scary" good tales according to the readers of that bestselling series, and each of my stories was written from the point of view of a female protagonist. Were these stories good because I was a woman writing as a woman, or because I was simply a good writer? Well, first of all, I am not a woman . . .

If you look at the collection CHURCHBOYS AND OTHER SINNERS, you will find that among my dozen or so protagonists we have a female in her 30s, a precocious, sexually active 13-year-old, an over-the-hill football player, and a forty-something jazzman who defies the gods like a modern Oedipus and finds himself duly punished when he unknowingly sleeps with his long lost daughter--these characters are nothing like me. Gosh, I hope not.

Yes, P is like me and there is no getting around that. However, I think you will find my work convincing no matter which protagonist's story flows from my pen across the page. And that, perhaps, is because I know a little something about that craft that we call writing.

Thanks,

Preston

More From "I, Serial Killer"

2008-06-27T09:30:00.000-07:00

Some of you have asked to see a few more sections from my forthcoming collection "I, Serial Killer."

So here they are. Some of the pieces in the collection are offbeat/humorous like the titular piece "I, Serial Killer" which you have already read by clicking on the link; others, like the ones which follow are a bit rougher, so be forewarned.

I posted them in reverse order so that all you have to do is scroll down the page and read them in sequence. They are "Cow F*ck*r," "Hunchback," and "Beauty Is in the Eye," and they are hardcore.

Here is my official warning:

The material contained in the following three posts--"Cow F*ck*r," "Hunchback," and "Beauty Is in the Eye"--is of an adult nature and is not intended for children or anyone who might be offended by violence, brutality, strong language, and graphic descriptions of sexual acts. If such material offends you, or if you are not of an age to read mature content, please do not read the following posts.

Thanks,

Preston

Cow Fckr

2008-06-27T09:27:00.000-07:00

© 2008 by Preston L. Allen

Down in Palmetto Grove, the old folks used to tell the story of Junker and the cow.

Well, first, there was the cow. Pick a cow. Any cow.

Then there was the rope. A strong one.

And then there was Junker.

A citrus picker by trade, Junker had a funny voice that made everybody who heard him laugh. He was a sight to see—shoeblack, wiry, and decked out in his Sunday best bib overalls—but folks generally tried to keep the young ones away from him because of that thing with the cow.

Junker was what folks today might call a pervert.

Like everybody else back then, Junker had a wife and a half dozen raggedy kids that lived all jammed together with him in his little house of sticks. No electricity, no in door plumbing, no glass windows, all the furniture second and third hand. You know how it was—the work was hard and there wasn’t much money. Junker, a pious man who could be found in church every Sunday morning, wasn’t one to complain about it. You did what you had to do to get by. That’s how most people back then felt.

You did what you had to do.

But on nights when he thought nobody was looking, Junker would go outside for a smoke and then sneak into the barn with that cow and tie her up real good to one of the feeding stocks with her tail end out.

Then he would loop that thick rope nice and secure around her hind legs. Then he would get behind the cow and loop the rope around his own legs too.

By this time, his bib overalls were down and his business big and hard in his hand.

Now the cow would protest, mooing loudly and swinging her rump like crazy, but she couldn’t throw him off no matter how hard she bucked since her hind legs and his were bound together. Wherever she flung her rump, she flung Junker there too. After a while she would calm down with Junker massaging her backside and soothing, “Hold on there, Bessy. Hold on. Just now, you’re gonna feel something sweet, sweet, sweet,” which came out as “tweet, tweet, tweet” because of his funny cartoon voice.

That last line had the young ones cracking up the way the old folks told it, and a boy’s natural curiosity being such as it was made more than a few of them interested in seeing it for themselves.

That’s how Robert got in trouble.

He came down to Palmetto Grove to spend the summer with his grandmother and his cousins, and they snuck out of the house late one night and crept down to that barn to peek in and see the thing for themselves, and there it was, just as everyone had said, a mooing cow, a thick rope, and a man pushing his business into the cow’s backside.

What nobody had told the giggling-too-loudly Robert was that Junker had a temper like a hair trigger and he always carried a shotgun.

The first blast went high, but the second one tore through the side of the barn that the boy was hiding behind, splintering the boards into razor-edged shards and setting them in motion.

A spinning piece of wood sliced Robert’s face from his ear to his neck so deep it dug out his eye and nearly decapitated him.

Robert was nine.

He would live.

Hunchback

2008-06-27T09:23:00.000-07:00

© 2008 by Preston L. Allen

After Prettyboy got out of Juvenile, he called his buddy the hunchback.

“I’m out,” he laughed over the phone.

“Well, did you get any?”

“Only from yo’ mama.”

“She any good?”

“Not as good as yo’ daddy, but give her another week with my dick up her ass, ‘cause she a fast learner.”

“So what’s going down?”

“Liquor store. A guy in Juvee told me how.”

“Teach me,” the hunchback said.

At fifteen, neither was old enough to drive, but they stole a car, switched the plates, then drove to the liquor store that night and waited until just before closing. They carried nines, a shotgun, and stocking masks. When the last customer left the store, Prettyboy said, “Let’s roll.”

They pulled the masks down over their faces and jumped out of the car. Prettyboy went in first. He had a nine in each hand. He put the barrel of one of them right under the nose of the old woman working the register. She put her hands up. Prettyboy snarled, “Open da register, beautiful.”

The hunchback, who had the shotgun, locked the door, put up the “closed” sign, and pulled down the shades. Then he moved to the middle of the room, watching the door, watching the store, checking to see if anyone else was around.
Prettyboy was watching the old woman, who was pulling money out of the register and calmly setting it on the counter in neat stacks of bills and even piles of coins. She had been robbed before. She knew the drill.

Prettyboy said, “Anybody else in here wid you?”

The old woman shook her head no, and kept on stacking the money.

“Don’t lie,” he warned.

She kept on stacking. “Nobody in here but me.”

Prettyboy rolled the barrel of the nine under her chin, lifted her chin. He wanted her to look at him. He said to her, “You’re pretty, you know?”

The old woman, who was calm before, now began to look a little nervous, but she smiled a thank you, lowered her eyes and went back to scooping money out of the register, though a little bit faster than she had been doing it before.

“Pretty as a cow’s ass,” Prettyboy snickered under his stocking mask.

She had eyes and skin that sagged, and blue veins showed on her blotchy face and hands. He lifted the woman’s chin with the nine again and pulled up his mask so that she could see his face. Looking at his face, the woman began to scream.

Prettyboy hit her in the face with the butt of one of his nines, and she fell back against the shelf behind the counter, slamming into liquor bottles, sending them crashing to the floor. There was a loud groan and the sound of liquor bottles shattering against the tiled floor before the old woman sank behind the counter. Prettyboy jumped over it going after her.

The hunchback could see the piston-like rise and fall of the fist holding the pistol. Prettyboy hit her again and again. He hurried behind the counter to pull Prettyboy off the old woman, who was facedown in a pool of broken bottles and spilled liquor. Prettyboy was atop her, angrily tugging off her pants. Her buttocks were blue-veined and splotchy.

The hunchback grabbed him up by the shoulders. “Stop that!” he shouted.

When he got Prettyboy off the woman, he knelt and dragged her pants back up. Then he turned her over, lifted her to a place on the floor that was free of broken glass, and leaned her up into a sitting position against the wall. Her face was red and swollen. Her nose was knocked flat to one side and leaking blood. She was trying to tell the hunchback something, but her top lip was ripped and hanging straight down the side of her mouth and her mouth was filling with blood from the torn lip, so he couldn’t make out her words.

The hunchback looked up at Prettyboy, who was stuffing the cash into his pockets. He said to him, “Why did you do this?”

Prettyboy sniffled, “I don’t know.”

It sounded to him like Prettyboy was crying, but he couldn’t tell because his mask was back on.

They heard sirens.

They fled.

Beauty Is in the Eye

2008-06-27T09:18:00.000-07:00

© 2008 by Preston L. Allen

Beauty Is in the Eye

The first day back from the hospital, Lesy Quesada told them that she was ready to tell her story.

They set up the interview in the kitchen area of her Miami Beach condo. She was not quite yet ready to face a large number of people, so she limited it to the three police officers who had rescued her, one print reporter from Miami Crime Writer and one camera crew from EyewitnessNewsSouth. Behind her was an arched window that let in the morning sun and a birdcage that held the two chattering white finches, Abraham and Isaac. Lesy Quesada, in a dark blue dress and a blue sun hat, cleared her throat and looked determinedly into the camera.

“I was dumping the garbage downstairs like I did every other morning, and I came back up to find my front door wide open. Well, this is a safe building, I never really bothered to lock it when I went downstairs like that, but usually I would close it at least. Maybe I just forgot to close it, I said to myself. When I went inside, I thought I saw a shadow pass across the floor. I stood there for about a minute with the garbage pail in my hand trying to decide if I had seen something or not. Something told me to run back outside. I was sure that I had seen movement. After a minute when nothing had happened, I came in here, in the kitchen, and I put a new liner in the garbage pail. I heard a sound. I turned around and boom. Something hit me in the face. I fell to the ground. I tried to scream but now a hand was clamped over my mouth. A voice was shouting at me to shut up. Shut up. But I could not say anything. He had his hand over my mouth.”

Lesy Quesada was a small woman with pale blue eyes and a tan complexion. She was in her early sixties, but even with a broken nose, a fattened lip, and an ugly red scar over her swollen right eye, it was clear to all that she was, under normal circumstances, a strikingly beautiful woman. There was something—like a patch of scars on her throat—but they were hard to make out because of the shadows from the hat on her head.

“The other hand,” she said, putting one hand over her mouth and one on her throat to show them the position he had had her in, “was choking me. I could not turn my head to see him.”

Now Lesy Quesada looked faint. The nurse who was with her handed her a cup with water or maybe something stronger in it, and she took three small sips.

She put the cup down and said, “I didn’t want to get hurt. I imagined he was here for my money. So I nodded to let him know that I would do as he wanted. He relaxed the grip on my throat as he pushed me slowly down to the ground. He pressed my face down into the carpet and kept it down with one hand. I was wearing a housecoat. I felt him pull down my under things, and he . . . raped me.”

She nodded her head and the shadow from the sun hat fell across her face.

“Then he tied something across my eyes so that I could not see. He tied my hands behind my back. He tied a gag over my mouth. He left me on the ground like that for about an hour. I imagined that he was going through my possessions, because I could hear him opening and closing things. I could hear his heavy feet plodding across my floor. I could hear him in here playing with the birds. He was singing to them and talking to them. Hey pretty birdie, hey pretty birdie, like that. They were chirping like crazy. Then it got real quiet and he came over and spoke to me very calmly, and I knew he was a black man, a negro. He said, ‘How you doing? You not hurt too bad I hope. I’m not gonna have to kill you I hope. Am I gonna have to kill you?’ I shook my head back and forth no. He said, ‘Good.’ Then he got behind me and pulled my legs apart and he sodomized me.”

One of the three police officers who had rescued her was black and female, and the cameraman from EyewitnessNewsSouth panned the police, but paused on the black police officer until she frowned at him.

Lesy Quesada continued, “Then he left me there like that for I would say six hours at least. I could hear him still moving around in here, going through my things, but I could also hear him at times in the den watching television. He kept the television on the sports channel. He kept it on loud. I had this idea that my neighbors would pass by and hear the sports noise from the television and come to my aid because they all know that I do not watch sports. I had friends in the building. Maybe someone would knock on my door. Maybe someone would call. I was praying to God. Save me. I was talking in my head to my dead husband. He is my guardian angel in heaven watching over me. Somebody, save me. Somebody, please help me. God, help me. The birds were chirping. I was scared, but I did not give up hope. More time passed. I heard the shower running. I could not believe it. He was taking a shower. Later I heard the stove and smelled food cooking. I couldn’t make out what it was, but I could smell the grease and peppers and something else . . . my cilantro. I think he was making tacos. I had left the ground beef out to thaw. All this time I was just lying on the ground with my hands tied behind my back. I did not sleep. I just kept waiting and listening. More time passed. I knew it was morning again when Abraham and Isaac began to sing. They always sing at about 6:00 in the morning. That meant that I had been there on the ground in that same position for nearly a whole day because I had taken out the garbage the day before at about seven in the morning when he first attacked me and it was almost seven in the morning again. I had not slept a wink. He came to me and said, ‘Where you keep the bird seed? The birds is hungry.’ He loosened the gag on my mouth so that I could answer and I told him where I kept it in the cabinet under the sink, and I begged him to please, please let me go, but he tied the gag back over my mouth, climbed onto my back, raped me, got off, rested a few minutes, got back on and sodomized me, then rolled off me and sighed like someone very pleased with himself, ‘Ahhh. That was good.’ That’s what he said, can you believe it? I could not believe my ears. This was a crazy man. Someone with a mental problem. Then after that he said, ‘Time to go feed the birdies.’ Just like that. Left me lying there on the ground in my filth.”

She closed her eyes and put a hand over her mouth. The nurse came to her and she leaned on the nurse’s shoulder. Clinging to the nurse, she wept in great trembling heaves. The cameraman panned in close to get a close up of the tears and to see if he could get a look at whatever that was on her neck.

The nurse whispered something to her, and Lesy Quesada said, “No. I am going to tell it. I will tell it. Today. Now.” Then she took another few sips from the nurse’s cup, composed herself, and faced the camera again.

“That is how it went for two days. For two days I did not sleep a wink, at least I do not think so. For two days I lay on that floor in the same clothes, thirsty, hungry, so hungry, starving, gagging on the reeking smell of my own waste, which did not seem to bother him at all. He raped me or sodomized me at least ten times each day. At least ten.” She nodded.

“After two days, he came to me and said, ‘How you doing? You still okay?’ I nodded. What could I tell him? He leaned in close to my face. ‘You want somethin’ to eat?’ What could I say? I was starving. The idea of eating food that this guy had prepared was upsetting, but what could I say? I nodded yes. I was hungry. He said cheerfully, ‘Okay, I’ll fix you up somethin’. Then we’ll get you cleaned up and out of dese stinky clothes. What you want to wear? You got somethin’ special you like?’ He loosened my gag so that I could answer and I told him where he could find my underwear and a nice dress for me to wear, and I begged him and pleaded with him to release me, but he tied the gag back over my mouth and said, ‘Okay now. Calm down.’ Then he climbed on and sodomized me again, then went into the kitchen and scrambled eggs, mixed up a bowl of hot oatmeal, toasted some bread and brought them and placed them on the ground nearby so I could hear the plates and bowls clinking. So I could smell the food—the salt, the black pepper, the grease. I was so hungry. Then he went to my bedroom to get a new outfit for me. He came back and said, ‘We got a problem. I can’t put dis on you all stinky like that. I’m gonna have to wash you up in the shower first.’ Then I felt him lift me and carry me away from the smell of the food and into the bathroom. He undid my hands, but not my gag or the thing he had tied over my eyes. He stood me up in the shower—it was so hard to stand. My legs were wobbly. I was so hungry. He held me up and turned on the water. Hot. I lifted my head and started gulping the water down through the gag. It burned my face and mouth it was so hot, but oh, it felt so good in my dry throat. He laughed, ‘You thirsty, huh?’ as he washed my . . . ass with a soapy towel. When the shower was finished, he stretched me out on the cold tiles on my back and towel-dried me, rubbed lotion on my body, and sprayed me with too much perfume. Then he sprayed me with too much of another fragrance. He cried out suddenly, ‘Here’s one I really like!’ And sprayed me too much with a third fragrance. He made me lift my arms and he put the new dress on me, without any underwear. At that point, I had learned him well enough to believe I knew what was coming. Turning me over, he re-tied my hands behind my back. They hurt terribly after being bound so long and then being freed for a short while and then being bound again. I groaned as he re-tied them. I was certain I knew what was coming. I was on my stomach with no underwear on, right? But he loosened the gag and flipped me over and kissed me on the mouth. He said, ‘I love you,’ then took me out to the living room where the food was and sat me down on the ground with my hands still tied behind my back and the blindfold still on my face and began to spoon the breakfast he had prepared into my hungry mouth. Mental. Completely mental.”

Lesy Quesada fell silent again and her finches, as if on cue, increased the volume of their chattering. She rose from her seat, the nurse at her side to steady her, and went to their cage. She lifted the door of the cage, reached in, and removed the food tray. They all watched as she reached under her sink and found the colorful box of seeds. She said affectionately, “I know what they want. My little alarm clocks. They saved my life, you know? Not these two. The other two.” She dumped the old seeds in the garbage disposal and then re-filled their tray with new seeds. “I know what they want,” the woman in the blue hat sang. She took a slice of white bread from the breadbox, broke it into quarters, and set one quarter of the bread atop the seeds in the food tray then replaced it in the cage. The small white pair attacked the quarter of bread hungrily and grew silent. “They like bread sometimes,” she explained. “He only gave them seeds. He refused to give them bread. I don’t know why. They eat the seeds, but they like a little bread too.”

The nurse helped her back to her seat.

“As far as I could tell, he spent his days in my den watching television. He spent his nights in my bedroom. He locked the bedroom door every morning around six because Abraham and Isaac made too much noise with their morning song and woke him up. He liked to sleep late—until noon. I’d rather not tell you how I know that, but my breakfast usually came around noon, as well as my first attack of the day. I was kept blindfolded and gagged with my hands tied behind my back. I was kept on the ground in the living room, sometimes in my own mess unless he was in the mood to clean me up and move me to a clean spot on the ground. The place stank. It still stinks. Can’t you smell it? That is the reek of my body and his semen you smell in the carpet. I’m going to sell this place. I’m going to get out of here. I’ve lived here twenty years since my husband died. I can’t stay. I’ll move to Aventura or Palmetto Glades, where it’s safer. Maybe I’ll go to Colorado and live with my daughter and her husband. But I have to leave this place. This city. He was crazy. Something was seriously wrong with him. He said he loved me? After he fed me, he hit me hard across the face, threw me down on the ground, pulled my legs open, and did it to me again. That’s how it went everyday. I had to escape, but how? All I knew about him was that he was strong, black, a man, crazy, he liked to have sex a lot, he liked birds. All night and all day I thought about him and that is all I could come up with. If I got my hands free, maybe I could scratch out his eyes. Maybe I could grab his testicles. All night I tried to free my hands, but in the morning, they were bound tight as ever. On the fifth day after breakfast he said, ‘I’m gonna take your blindfold off. I’m gonna show you somethin’. I think I can trust you now. Can I trust you?’ I nodded. He took my blindfold off. It had been five days since my eyes had seen light. It took a while to get used to the light. He was showing me his face. It was hideous . . . ugly. He was black, but that is not what I am saying—it was the scar. As he slowly came into focus I saw that his face was badly scarred. I saw that he had only one eye. He was angrily demanding, ‘What? What? You think I’m ugly?’ If I had seen him suddenly like that, I think I might have shrunk away from his horrible face, but because it took a little time for my eyes to adjust to the light, and also because I realized he was ugly but didn’t want to be ugly, I wisely shook my head, and he loosened my gag. I said, desperately, ‘You’re not ugly. You’re very handsome, just scarred. It is only a scar.’ He said, ‘You lying to me, bitch?’ I said, ‘No.’ He said, ‘I wanna show you somethin’ else.’ He removed a photograph from his pocket. It was a photo of a little black boy—a pretty little child. I said, ‘Is that you?’ He nodded and smiled proudly. He said, ‘Before the accident. That’s what I looked like.’ I said, ‘You still look like that.’ He sighed and his twisted face became sad as he replaced the photograph in his pocket. ‘Thanks,’ he said. Then he kissed me on the mouth again—said he loved me again. My hands were still bound, but we . . . we made out. I did my best to make it romantic. It was upsetting to my stomach to have that monster put his hands on me, but I wanted to live. I wanted to live. I made sounds of approval and arousal when he fondled my breasts. I looked at him with . . . loving eyes. I wanted him to think that I was really enjoying it, that I really liked him. When he rolled me onto my stomach and got behind me and entered me, I said, yes, and oohh, and wonderful, and oh yes I’m coming and all of that stuff they like to hear. And when he forced it into my anus and asked, ‘You like it in the ass, grandma?’ I answered, ‘Yes, it’s very nice.’ He said, ‘I like to put it in old ladies’ asses. They’re the best.’ After he finished, he gave me another violent beating, as I had expected he would, and he replaced the gag in my mouth put the blindfold back over my eyes. He said, ‘Now that you seen my face, I gotta kill you. I’m real sorry about dat, but dat’s how it gotta be, okay, grandma? But not now. In a couple more days when I’m done wid you.’ Then he went into the den to watch sports on the television. Just like that.”

Lesy Quesada said something into the nurse’s ear. The nurse handed her a cigarette from her purse. A police officer and the reporter from the newspaper both leaned forward with a lighter to light Lesy Quesada’s cigarette. She leaned into the police officer’s lighter and lit her cigarette from it. She inhaled deliciously, then tilted her head up so that the smoke shot past the brim of her hat when she exhaled.

“That was his mistake. He left my blindfold off too long. I had seen his face. I knew he was in his late teens or early twenties. I knew how tall he was. 6’2”. With dark skin and braided hair. Two sets of braids, one set that went from side to side across the front of his head and hung down on the left over his missing eye—one set that was combed to the back that ended in a ponytail at the base of his neck. I saw everything. I saw that he had ripped all of my phones out of the wall. I also saw that he did not put the chain on the front door. With that blindfold off, I could see everything—he had smashed every photograph of my husband in his policeman’s uniform. He was killed twenty years ago by somebody just like this. I could hear him talking to me. Telling me to remain calm. Telling me to pay attention to everything. Telling me to find a way to save myself. I wish I had bought a gun like he had told me to. I wish I had taken it downstairs with me every morning when I took out the trash. That night I lay on the floor until he picked himself up from the couch in the den, turned off all the lights, and went into my bedroom, but I did not hear the click. He slept with the door open, listening for me maybe. At some point I heard snoring coming from the bedroom, but I waited because it could be a trap. I waited because I had a plan. I waited all night. At about six in the morning Abraham and Isaac began to sing their morning song. I heard the mattress springs as he got up from the bed. He said, ‘Damn birds!’ and slammed the bedroom door as he did every morning around that time. I waited thirty minutes until I thought he was back asleep, back to snoring. Abraham and Isaac were still chattering. I was on my stomach, so I inched over to the couch like a worm. I got up on my knees and rested my head against the seat of the couch—I pressed my face against the couch and rubbed and rubbed until the blindfold was up above my eyes and I could see. Then I used my neck and my shoulders to pull myself up onto the couch. Then I scooted over to the armrest, leaned into it, and forced myself up. Up. I rose up on my legs. They were wobbly, but I was standing. I gave my legs a minute and no more to regain their strength and then I walked creakily to the front door. Oh the pain. Every part of my body hurt. With my hands behind my back, I had to face away from the door to work the lock. I fumbled with it as quietly as I could for a minute, two minutes, three minutes—everything felt backwards and upside down—it was confusing—and the strength in my fingers was gone—I couldn’t even work a simple lock. And though I was trying to work quietly, it was making a click-click noise, but he could not hear because the birds were singing. Keep singing, babies. Keep singing, mama needs you. The sun was rising. I fiddled with the lock with my numb fingers and I could feel it finally turning the way it should when I heard the bedroom door swing open. I froze. He came halfway out into the living room. I did not breathe. He yawned. He scratched himself. My heart pounded. If he looked this way, he would see me standing at the door. Oh god. He stood there. And the birds kept singing, louder than they ever had. ‘Damned birds,’ he muttered, turning toward the bathroom. When he went into the bathroom, I prayed, Close the door. Close the door. Please, close the door. And he closed the bathroom door. I heard the toilet seat accept his weight. I heard the loud grunts as he relieved his bowels, the same disgusting sounds he made when he relieved himself in me. I grabbed that lock with my numb, backward-facing fingers and I worked it hard. And God was good. I heard it give. I opened that door, and I propelled myself down the hall on my two wobbly legs. I have heard people say that they were so scared that they became paralyzed by fear. Paralysis was a luxury I could not afford that day, let me tell you. I found new strength when I went through that door. I ran, I hobbled, I limped, I ran. I rounded that corner and got to that elevator. Pushed that call button. And when that door opened, I flung myself inside and leaned against the controls and found button 3. I lived on the 10th floor. I wanted to get as far away from him as possible, but I dared not go to the bottom. When he realized I was gone, that would be the first place that he would look. But on the 3rd floor, I had a friend, Mr. Gagne, who left for work around this time every morning. The elevator went down to 3. It seemed to take so long. It seemed so loud, so noisy. The elevator doors opened and I ran to Mr. Gagne’s door. I banged on his door with my head. I banged. I banged. I heard a cough from inside and then a voice. ‘Who is it?’ he demanded. I put my face in front of his peep and mumbled through my gag as loudly as I could, ‘Mmmmmmm.’ A year ago he had told me I was beautiful and asked me out on a date. I had turned him down because I didn’t like the idea of dating someone in the building. Beautiful? I must have looked like hell when he opened that door. My face was all busted up. I had a gag over my mouth. My hands were bound behind my back. I was wearing a dress caked with my own feces and dripping urine onto the ground because the psychopath hadn’t washed me yet that day. My hair looked like hell. But Mr. Gagne pulled me inside, and I collapsed in his arms.”
Her cigarette was smoked down to a glowing stub, and she seemed dazed as she looked for somewhere to mash it out before the nurse relieved her of it.

“Thank you,” she said to the nurse, “but I think I will need another.” The nurse gave her another cigarette and the same officer lit it for her again and she grabbed his hand and held it. Her hand was trembling clutching his. She sucked hard on the cigarette, then took it out of her mouth and gave it to the officer.

“But he was gone when they got upstairs. He was gone. He had fled my apartment. And my poor Abraham and Isaac, my poor little birdies, they saved my life, and they were dead. He had killed them. He took them out of their cage and he, and he, and he . . .” Lesy Quesada sobbed. She could not find the words to say what he did to them.
She pointed to the two birds in the cage.

“These new ones were given to me by these kind officers of the Metro Miami-Dade Police Department. Thank you so much. But find him. Do your job, find him! Get him off the streets!” she said to the officer holding her trembling hand. He nodded, grim-faced.

When Lesy Quesada removed the blue hat from her head, the shadows went away. She lowered the collar of her dress so that they could see her neck and shoulders. The camera came in for a close up. Her neck and shoulders, like those of a teenaged girl, were covered with love bites. Hickies.

“When you find him,” she said to the camera, “I would not object at all if you killed him.”

Four Books I Was Born to Write

2008-06-18T14:31:00.000-07:00

Q: I haven't bought your book yet but I read the Times review. That was a great review and I hope it helps with sales! Your blogs are very interesting. I will not ask you whether you are left or right because I read in one of your older posts that you do not discuss sex, religion, or politics with strangers. Can I ask what book you're working on now?

A: Thanks for your support. Let's see . . . I am working on a couple of things right now: a short story collection about serial killers; and an insider's novel about the car sales business.

All or Nothing is an important novel for me because it represents one of the Four books I Was Born to Write: the daddy book; the car salesman book; the church book; and the gambling book.

So I wrote the gambling book. That one is out of the way.

I'm working on the car salesman book now. I'm not going to make too many friends with that book. I'll make it humorous so maybe they don't kill me.

I wrote the church book, sort of, with Churchboys and Other Sinners, a collection of stories--but I am on the verge of completing the church NOVEL, The Faithful.

The daddy book--that one I can't write just yet. I'll write that one when I grow up.

Las Vegas Noir

2008-06-16T16:57:00.000-07:00

Q: I just read your amazing story "Crip" in Las Vegas Noir and now I am ordering your novel All or Nothing at Amazon! What a great story! It is monstrous and beautiful at the same time and some of the lines in it are so true. How do you go about writing stories? Where does your creativity come from? Tell me how you wrote that story. Is it based on a true story? It seems so real.

A: Okay, "Crip," hmmm. . . well, that story was written shortly after my mother passed away last year. I got the call for the story while she was sick and started working on it while we were making funeral arrangements and going through that whole process. But I was in too much pain, and so I called the editor and asked for an extension because of the circumstances.

What I was trying to do was write a story about a little boy who witnesses brutality and is badly scarred internally and externally by it, but the narrative voice in my head after my mother's passing was rather dark, due to my depression--too dark to tell a child's story. So I made the child grow up, and he became Crip, the Mustard Man, and the voice worked better now. I wanted him to live in his adult present, but be haunted by the childhood of brutality, and I wanted that haunting memory to help him somehow, or help somebody, in his present. I am a gambler and I know a lot about gambling, so I know of the suffering children of gamblers go through--so here came the innocent little girl and her weak (gambler) father. After that, the story just flowed out--I had the voice, I had the characters, I had the setting--like that.

What I like best about that story is the ending. The ending was done in honor of my mother, a woman who loved stories with a sad, but heroic ending followed by a denouement, or a moral, that put a little sunshine back in.

Thanks,

Preston

Like a Rush Without the Risk

2008-06-15T20:16:00.000-07:00

Q: I read your book a few months ago and really enjoyed it, but now I see you have a New York Times review. You should be very proud. Your book is great. Reading your book is like getting all the rush of gambling without having to lose any money. I can relate to almost everything in it. I am a gambler and have gambled in the Florida casinos, though now I live overseas (military). I think I remember you from the casinos. My name is ___ . I am Haitian, very tall, and have a shaven head. I was a school teacher for a while and I think we talked about that a few times? Your photograph looks very familiar and some of the adventures in the book are very familiar. Do you remember the tall transvestite M_____ who used to gamble there all the time? She was a trip. How come you did not use her in the book? I read an episode you wrote about her or someone very similar to her on another website. The website is asili and the story was called "Pretty Birdy". It was a great gambling story, why didn't you use it in the book?

A: No, I cannot say that I remember you. I'm scratching my head thinking, but your name and description do not ring a bell. Sorry. But I do remember M____! I believe that she was a transsexual, not a transvestite--though I have no hard proof. The story you are talking about was only loosely based on her, and I did not use it in the book because my editor and I decided that it did not fit the book's overall direction. There were many such episodes that had to be cut, a few of which were published elsewhere.

I like what you said about the book. "All the rush of gambling without having to lose any money."

Why don't you write me a review on Amazon?

Thanks,

Preston

Roaming Beyond the Ethnic Thing

2008-06-12T20:05:00.000-07:00

Q: I enjoyed your book tremendously, which I read just before reading the first two stories in Nam Le’s collection THE BOAT. He is a good writer, excellent, actually, as are you, but I am noticing that the New York Times is correct in its review when it says that he is asserting “his right to roam beyond the Vietnamese thing.” As a writer of color (if I may call you that), do you ever feel that you must write about issues connected with your ethnicity or are you free to roam beyond the “African American thing” and explore other topics? Would you write a book that does not have an African-American protagonist and that does not touch on African American themes? If you did so, would you feel as though you had sold out? If you do not do so, do you feel that you are limited somehow by your ethnicity?

A: I have a feeling that I answered a similar question (questions) already, or maybe this is the question (s) that I am always being asked. Before I answer it (them), let me post some random things that popped into my head after reading your email.

1) I caught Trey Ellis being interviewed on NPR today. He’s got a new book out called Bedtime Stories: Dispatches from the Frontlines of Single-Fatherhood. Check it out at Amazon.com-- http://www.amazon.com/Bedtime-Stories-Adventures-Land-Single-Fatherhood/dp/1594865299/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1213318953&sr=1-1

He and the interviewer are going back and forth about the book when the interviewer says something like this, which I am paraphrasing: “Your father was a psychiatrist. Your mother, a psychologist. You’re African American. Your mother committed suicide. That must have been hard at such a young age for you . . .”

My ears picked up “You’re African American,” and I wondered at it. Trey Ellis speaks like what he is, a well educated man, an assistant professor at Columbia, a novelist, a filmmaker. It is not possible for the audience to detect from Ellis’ voice over the radio that he is African American, so the interviewer must tell them. From the discussion of the book, which seems to be about a single father rearing two children, it is not possible for the audience to tell that Ellis is African American, so the interviewer must tell them.

It got me to thinking . . . it seems important for the audience to know that Ellis is African American, even though the book itself is not really about being black, or about the black experience (as far as I can tell from the interview).

2) My first published short story was “The Lord of Travel,” which shows up in my collection CHURCHBOYS AND OTHER SINNERS (Carolina Wren Press, 2003). Before it was eventually accepted by the Seattle Review, the story received a few handwritten rejection letters. (A handwritten rejection is a ray of hope for all beginning writers—it means your story was rejected, but at least they liked it enough to give you feedback about it.)

One rejection letter said something like (again, I paraphrase) “Why is the protagonist black? He doesn’t do anything black, so you might as well make him regular.”

3) Several publishers and agents rejected an earlier novel I had written with a similar comment: Your characters don’t act black enough. One of them added, “--and I have many black friends so I know what I am talking about.”

4) When I visit the bookstore, I note that my book (All or Nothing) is never shelved in the African American section. It is always shelved in the “regular” section.

Churchboys and Other Sinners is always shelved in the “regular” section.

My novels Hoochie Mama, Bounce, and Come With Me Sheba have been shelved in both the African American Section and the “regular” section, but usually the “regular” section.

Do these people not know that I am black? Would I sell more books if they knew?

I visited Barnes and Noble today. The African American section has books with scantily clad sexy men and women on the covers. The section looks . . . sultry. It arouses me sometimes to visit. I like that a lot. This way I don’t have to go to the sex and psychology section, where the erotic books are to get my groove on. The African American section looks like the sex and psychology section. It was startling finding Roots, Their Eyes Were Watching God, and Beloved in that crowd. I felt kind of embarrassed to see them there, but I can’t say exactly why.

My novel Hoochie Mama was in that crowd too. It fit right in, but there was only one copy left, which means that it is selling. Good.

5) James Haskins (author of over 100 books) was one of my professors at the University of Florida. When he learned that I wanted to be a novelist, he gave me this bit of advice, which I paraphrase: “Never put your photograph on the book, Allen. If you leave it off, you’ll sell more books.”

But it was 1985. And he was the most cynical man I ever met. He always called me Allen. I wonder if he thought that was my first name. A lot of people do. My name is Preston L. Allen.

My picture has appeared on the cover of every book I have ever written, except for Hoochie Mama.

5) I’m not sure that All or Nothing is an African American novel, but its protagonist is definitely black. People seem to like him, black or not. They seem to regard him as a gambler who happens to be black, not as a black gambler. His girlfriend, C.L., is white. I don’t think I have gotten one single email referring to them as an interracial couple. Have I succeeded in writing a black book that is not about blackness or the black experience? And is that really a success? I said “succeeded,” but is that really a success, to write a black book that is not about blackness? Is that kind of like a white book wearing black face?

Should I have made him “regular”? If I had made him white, would it have changed the impact of the book on the reader? P is more of a gambler than he is a father, than he is a bus driver, than he is black, than he is a man. That’s what I think. What’s his race? Gambler. What’s his sex? Gambler. What’s his religion? Gambler. What does he do for a living? He’s a gambler.

I made him black because, as we all know, black represents the darkness of the soul. Thus, his skin color and race symbolize the dark place to which we sink when we allow a vice, such as gambling, to deprive us of our moral selves . . . NOT!

I made him black because I wanted him to represent all black people, and I wanted this book to rescue black people from the vices that white people have created since reconstruction to destroy us. NOT!

I made him black because it would match his hat. NOT!

I made him black because when I used to gamble, I was black. Thank god I had that surgery and I am white now. NOT!

I made him black because P is me, and this confessional which grew into a novel was originally intended to be a 100-page suicide note trying its best to explain the unexplainable to those I left behind: how this addiction drove me to take my own life. My plan was to just tell the truth to everybody in this long letter and then end it all. I was tired, real tired, believe me. Fortunately, I had a writing workshop the coming weekend and my writer’s ego looked down upon what I had written and said, “Hey, this is pretty good. You’re onto something here, Presty. Why don’t you fictionalize it and give it to your buddies in the workshop?” And then the next day, I won a big jackpot at the casino—five grand; the numbers on the machine were 371737; the Play-4 the night before was 3717, I was imitating it because it struck me as similar to my usual number 373737; and I was only playing it for a quarter because I needed to save up the rest of my money to buy the gun. Well, no self-respecting gambler is going to kill himself when he is on a winning streak . . . so that weekend, I was still alive and I went to the workshop with my buddies Leejay, Gonzalo, Elizabeth, and David, who gave me great feedback on the piece. The rest is history. To this day, I am not sure which of the two was more responsible for stopping me from going through with the suicide, my ego or the lucky five grand. At any rate, my buddies in the workshop liked the book, I got my gambling under control (again, for the third time, fourth?), and then I got the book published. And that’s the truth. Not!

. . . well, maybe some of it's true--but I won't say which because I am a writer of fiction, not of memoir.

6) Yes, I feel the need to write stories that reflect the black community, and I do. My award-winning Churchboys and Other Sinners (Carolina Wren Press 2003), for example, is a collection of stories with mostly African-American protagonists.

But mostly I just write the story that the muse gifts me--and the ethnicity of the protagonist will be whatever the muse says it should be. I don’t much worry about betraying the black community because I am black, so my awareness as a black person will inform the work even if its protagonist is white. My awareness as a Honduran will inform it too. My awareness as a man will inform it too. My awareness as a father will inform it too. My awareness as a Floridian will inform it too. Etc., Etc.

Yes, when I was a young writer, I used to feel self-imposed pressure when I did not write black stories. I had stuff that I wrote for myself, and then I had “serious” stuff that I wrote for the black community. Like I said, I was young. At the same time, I was very much interested in science fiction, thrillers, and classic American lit 101, most of which did not have much to do, thematically, with African Americans. Thus, many of my stories were already “roaming beyond the African American thing,” but I felt a little bit guilty about it. Like I was selling out my race. I was young. So young. When I grew up, I said, “I am going to write what I write and let the chips fall where they may. I will master my craft and become the best writer that I can be. Readers will like me because I am a good storyteller, not because I have a certain color skin.”

I think all writers feel this sort of pressure at some point and/or to some degree because every writer identifies with one group or another—should I write only about Boston, about women’s issues, about the gay community, about the disabled, about sports, about rural Alabama, about an evangelical upbringing?

Members of a racial or social minority, however, feel the additional pressure of having to defend the group. Thus, they feel that they are betraying the group when they don’t use their art to uplift it. And then they may feel that they are limiting their art when they do nothing save write about their group.

Furthermore, every writer wants to be taken seriously. Which of the two sounds more “serious” to you—(A) my story about a sleazy car salesman who falls in love with one of his customers and has her double cross him the way he has double crossed so many others, or (B) my story, confessional, about a black man who struggles against racism to earn a living as a car salesman in an upscale white neighborhood? The answer is B. Duh. The added benefit is that people will look at your black skin, learn that you were once a car salesman, and conclude that the story is based on real life. Voila. Now you are a serious writer. Your writing is genuine. Your writing is legitimate.

But if you make the protagonist white, it is merely a cute exercise on your part. Furthermore, you are a sell out.

Or so they say.

7) I’m glad I do not subscribe to that philosophy anymore.

Has Oprah roamed beyond the black thing?

Has Spielberg roamed beyond the Jewish thing?

Has Louise Erdrich roamed beyond the Native American thing?

Have Francis Ford Coppola (Apocalypse Now) and Martin Scorsese (Gangs of New York) roamed beyond the Italian American thing?

Has Spike Lee (25th Hour) roamed beyond the African American thing?

Has Tim Story (directed Fantastic Four) roamed beyond the African American thing?

Has M. Night Shyamalan (Sixth Sense) roamed beyond the Indian thing?

In fact, is Shyamalan ever going to make a movie that features Indian people/culture (ala Bollywood)?

You do realize that if M Night Shylamalan decided to take his international fame and superstar status back to India and produced/directed a feature film there that his potential audience is close to a billion? A billion!

Shyamalan's case is very interesting in this regards: many ethnic and social minorities roam beyond their "thing" in order to grow as artists and to gain a wider readership/audience, but Bollywood's audience actually dwarfs Hollywood's because of India's great population.

Bollywood films, of course, don't have much of an international audience outside of India, England, parts of the West Indies and parts of the US, while Hollywood films do--I'm sure RAMBO and the MATRIX are very popular even in Yakutsk.*

Thus, you can argue that M. Night Shyamalan is the "biggest" Indian film personality/name in the world, but the most "popular" is actually somebody you have never heard of and who has never bothered to direct/produce films outside his/her native India.

But, I digress.

The point is this: when in Roam, do as the Roamers do.

If you are a lesbian, for example, there is nothing wrong with writing a great/bestselling lesbian themed book. Awesome. Do it!

On the other hand, you are not a sellout to the lesbian community if you write a bestselling thriller with a heterosexual male protagonist. What you are is a writer. Lesbians will, and should, embrace you because you are good at what you do. Furthermore, I am sure that your sensibilities as a lesbian will inform the book in surprising and refreshing ways.

Further-furthermore, you could make your big splash writing scripts for "CSI:Miami"--I know, I know, it's not as fulfilling as writing scripts for "The 'L' Word," but that job has already been taken and a splash is a splash, and your community will and should be proud if you. They should be walking around saying things like, "You know that woman who is the lead writer for CSI? I knew her back in college at UF. She was president of UFLAGS, the University of Florida Lesbian and Gay Society. She's always been a real good writer. I'm proud of her."

The point that I am trying to get at, is that once you get beyond your infancy as a writer/artist is that you will find your own voice, your own style, your own audience; and the particular group that you come from will be proud of you because now they have a representative in that genre.

You are not a sellout. You are a representative.

You are an example that talent defies the pigeonhole.

It is a writer's job to write the best story that he/she is capable of writing.

That's what I always try to do. Sometimes that story is about my ethnic thing--sometimes it is not. But regardless of what it is about, the reader is going to love it.

8) Get a copy of the New York Times this Sunday (June 15th, 2008) and find a review of my novel All or Nothing. Then purhchase a copy of "All or Nothing" and judge whether or not I "Roamed" beyond my "ethnic thing."

I gambled a lot. I won a lot. I lost a lot. Maybe gambling is my ethnic thing!

Thanks for the question,

Preston

*Yakutsk--You've never heard of Yakutsk? You've never played the boardgame Risk? Yakutsk, Irkutsk, and Kamchatka? Oh you sad generation of Wii players--you have never lived, if you have never played Risk.

Preston

Oprah's Empire Is Not in Trouble

2008-06-08T06:30:00.000-07:00

I hope her empire is not in trouble. A good review from Oprah is one of those things that we writers dream of. . . I am still dreaming.

Preston

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http://www.blackvoices.com/blogs/2008/06/05/oprahs-empire-can-it-strike-back/?icid=100214839x1203624758x1200144545

Posted Jun 5th 2008 5:00AM by Jeff DouglasFiled under: BlackSpin

“Oprah’s Empire Will Strike Back”

Don't believe the haters over at Fox News and The New York Times who've reported that Oprah Winfrey's media empire is in trouble. It's just not true.Claims that Oprah has "lost touch" with her audience are just as foolish as the rumors that her presidential endorsement of Sen. Barack Obama set off a chain reaction that sunk her talk show's ratings.

Love her or hate her, know this: Oprah is one of the richest and smartest business women in the world. Her empire is strong and will strike back and silence her critics. ...

There's strength in numbers. And Oprah's worth an estimated $1.5 billion (probably more). No
African school scandal or regrettable book club endorsement can change that. Oprah is the highest-paid TV personality out there, earning $260 million a year. Jay Leno makes just $32 million a year in comparison.

Her show's ratings have dipped some 7 percent since last year? So what? "Fair and Balanced" Fox News and The New York Times forgot to mention Oprah has had the No. 1 talk show on TV for a decade. Sure, her viewer numbers are down a bit, but the same is true for ALL daytime talk shows, from Ellen to Dr. Phil. And don't forget who's bankrolling the good doctor's show, which is ranked No. 2 in daytime ratings: Oprah!

But wait, there's even more faux fuel that threatens to burn down Oprah's empire.

The daytime diva's recent approval ratings are somewhere around 60 percent. Wow! That's still about 59 percent better than our current president's approval ratings. And since when did pollsters start doing approval ratings for talk-show hosts anyway? What's Tyra Bank's approval rating?

Then there's the argument that circulation for her "O" magazine is down 10 percent. The fact is, most startup magazines don't even make it past their first year. O Magazine has been on the newsstands for a eight years and is STILL ranked in the top ten of home and lifestyle magazines, according to Media Distribution Services., right behind Martha's Stewart's magazine.

What a great day it would be for Oprah haters, to legitimately report that such a successful and powerful woman has met the same fate that so many rich and famous do.

But when you take a closer look at the numbers, it's just not true.

Children and Gambling 2

2008-05-28T05:45:00.000-07:00

Q: I read the answer to your last question and read that you have seen children waiting for their parents in parking lots and non-carpeted casino floors. I am a 14 year old daughter whose father has/had gambling problems and HAS left me and younger siblings in a parking lot. Have you ever thought of seeing or listening from a child's prospective? My blog is basically from a child's view:

http://www.sramirez93.blogspot.com/

A: Thanks for your question. Yes, I have thought of gambling from a child's point of view. In fact, the sequel to the book (Son of a P) is written from the point of view of P's son--but he is an adult telling the story.

I have a story called "Crip" in the collection LAS VEGAS NOIR (Akashic 2008) that features a little girl who is the child of a gambler. She suffers a lot because of her gambling father--she gets kidnapped and ransomed and then even the threat of sexual abuse arises.

Around 2003-4 there was a memoir I heard about on NPR called something like . . . I wish I could remember the title . . . it was called something like "THE THINGS WE LOST THROUGH OUR FATHER's GAMBLING." From the excerpts, it seems to have been written from the point of view of an adult child of a gambler--recalling her childhood with the gambling father. I wish I had written down the title, but I was on my way to the casino to go gamble and I didn't want to be late.

Your question has given me an idea--I am going to write another short story from the point of view of a gambler's child and focus just on the adventures of the child.

I will visit your site.

Thanks,

Preston

Children and Gambling

2008-05-20T04:03:00.000-07:00

Q: I am enjoying your book. I have a question about children. Is it realistic that P would abandon his wife and children? He clearly loves them.

A: Good question, and the answer is yes. It all depends on the gambler, of course, and the level of addiction to which he/she has sunk. But I have seen very young children waiting on their gambling parent for hours on the non-carpeted areas of the casino (Florida law forbids minors to step on the carpeted areas where the gambling occurs). I have seen them waiting outside in parked cars. I imagine many of them must be waiting upstairs in the hotel rooms, too. I have known of gamblers who have divorced most likely due to their addiction--and there are children involved whom they almost never see, and to whom they give little financial support because their money goes into the casino. In other words, they cannot afford child support (and are not there for emotional support) and yet they are in the casino every day blowing hundreds and thousands.

In that respect, P is fictional, but typical. He loves his children, but he will push them aside if they interfere with his gambling.

Go to this site for more information--Gambling Addiction Questions and Answers.

http://www.addictionrecov.org/qandagam.htm

Thanks,

Preston

Why Do You Like Stephen King?

2008-05-19T06:44:00.000-07:00

Q: Going through your favorite books on your websites, I spotted among the mostly literary list several titles by horror novelist Stephen King. King is a genre writer and you seem to have literary aspirations. Would you explain why you count him as one of your favorites.

A: King is not the only genre writer on my list, first of all.

But to answer the question, King is one of my favorite writers because unlike many genre writers, he has excellent writing skills; and unlike many literary writers, he does not let his writing interfere with his storytelling.

When I read "genre" fiction, I am hooked by the story but usually find myself skipping through sentences, paragraphs, and as I near the end of the book entire chapters because the WRITING itself is not engaging.

When I read "literary" fiction, I am hooked by the writing but sometimes find myself abandoning the book halfway through because the STORY itself is not engaging--or I finish the work but have trouble fully enjoying it because the writing is so dense that it becomes more interesting than the actual story.

The works I love (be they literary or genre) are those that have an engaging story and writing that is polished.

King's stories, of course, are enagining, for that is the strength of the genre writer, right? But his prose is also always polished and at times masterful. Furthermore, he has a great sense of humor, excellent timing, a knowledge of all the "tricks," and a flawless instinct for when to use them.

In short, his books are readable without being dumb. It's more than that actually. His books are highly enjoyable.

Finally, King is an "important" writer--as important to our times as Edgar Allan Poe (good writer, but not considered literary in his day), James Fennimore Cooper (not a very good writer at all), and Shakespeare (good writer, but not considered literary in his day) were to their times.

Imagine you are a college student in the year, say, 2090, and you take a course in 20th Century Horror--and on the syllabus there are no works by Stephen King. Drop the course.

By the way, King is already being taught in college classrooms around the country.

Thanks,

Preston

A New Review

2008-05-16T03:49:00.000-07:00

The best fiction book I have read in years!

Mr. Allen’s “All or Nothing” is the story of P and his gambling addiction. “All or Nothing” is an extremely powerful and simply told story. If I hadn’t needed sleep I would have read this in one sitting.

The character P, we’re never told anyone’s full name, is an honest man. Honest, in that he knows he’s a gambler. He knows he is addicted to gambling. He knows he lies to those around him. He doesn’t apologize for who and what he is. P allows us to see into the mind of a gambler and that the meaning of money has many interpretations.

I agreed to read “All or Nothing” because I thought it would be a basic story about a gambler. A straightforward fiction book.

I was unprepared for the emotional intensity of Mr. Allen’s writing.

I was unprepared for the stillness and soft bluntness of Mr. Allen’s writing.

“All or Nothing” is one hell of a book. Thank you Mr. Allen.

(Christine Speakman, four out of four Roses, The Muse Book Reviews)

http://themusebookreviews.tripod.com/id143.html

Do you believe the world is flat or round?

2008-05-10T09:18:00.000-07:00

While I am working on compiling that list of MFA and Ph. D in Creative Writing programs with my friend Lisa Shaw, I am going to share my response to one of the earliest questions I got on this blog but did not post because I had no idea how it fit in with everything. It is interesting, though.

Q: If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?

A: I don’t know how to answer that question. A willow? I am not afraid to weep. An oak? It’s hard to make me weep. I don’t know. Sorry. Thanks for emailing.

Q: It’s me again. Here’s a better question. I came up with it after reading your books “Churchboys and Other Sinners” and “All or Nothing,” especially the latter because P strikes me as an agnostic who will not believe that which he cannot see. Except when it comes to luck. With luck, he possesses faith to dangerous extremes. Here is the question:

If you were living in Europe in 1490, would you believe that the world was flat?

A: I like this question! It had me up all night.

If I were living in Europe in 1490, two years before Columbus journeyed east to discover the “New World,” I would have been taught that the world was flat, and because I am a good student I would have accepted it.

Now, if I were a child raised near the ocean and able to see day after day the approach of ships, the mast rising over the horizon before the actual ship appeared, I would have accepted that the world was flat as the answer to give in school, but I would hold out that maybe this school “fact” was not the actual truth.

On the other hand, I do not think that I would have leapt to the conclusion that the world was round. I would simply “doubt” the facts that I was taught in school and wait for the day when the truth, or a better theory, would eventually come out.

Even today, there are things I accept as “temporary stays against confusion” as Richard Abkarian and Marvin Klotz say in the intro to “Innocence and Experience” in their textbook Literature the Human Experience. For example, I accept the theory of evolution as scientifically sound—for today! I imagine that in the future there will be a better theory to explain how things came to be. I feel the same about the big-bang theory. I feel the same about flat earth in 1490—I accept it until something closer to the truth comes along.

Q: If you were living in Europe in 1493, would you believe the new theory that the world was round?

A: Yes. It would explain away some if the discrepancies that I had encountered with the old flat-earth theory. On the other hand, I would hold that new theory up to the same level of doubt that I had held the flat-earth theory up to. In other words, I believe it, but if something new comes along that makes more sense and can be supported through scientific reasoning and empirical observation and measure, then I will easily cease to believe it.

Q: Do you believe in God?

A: I do not discuss religion in public or with strangers. Sorry.

Q: Does Elwyn believe in God? [Churchboys and Other Sinners]

A: Yes he does. He has no problem with his faith. He is a true believer. His only problem is trying to bring the world in line with what he already believes. And, of course, he struggles to justify his sinful, clandestine affair with Sister Morrisohn so as to reconcile his value system.

Q: If Elwyn were living in 1490, would he believe that the world was flat?

A: Yes. And he would believe it despite the evidence he saw to the contrary.

Q: If Elwyn were living in 1493, would he believe the new theory that the world was round?

A: Not at first. He would accept it after everyone else began to accept it.

Q: Does P believe in God? [All or Nothing]

A: Yes. But he has doubts that he will not speak about publicly, nor do these doubts trouble him to any great degree. P believes that if there is a God, that God will do what God will do, and there is nothing that P, a mere human, can do about it—so there is no need for P to worry about it. P believes that religion, for the most part, is designed so that a few disingenuous people can distract you by getting you to start worrying about things that you really have no control over—death, life in the hereafter, invisible spirits. On the other hand, P believes that some sentient being or beings do govern the universe, and that perhaps they can be used from time to time to control “luck.” In fact, when P is down on his luck, he becomes very religious and superstitious. Thus, P is a contradiction.

Q: If P were living in 1490, would he believe that the world was flat?

A: Yes, but he would have doubts about it.

Q: If P were living in 1493, would he believe the new theory that the world was round?

A: Yes, but he would have doubts about it. He would like it better than he had the flat-earth theory, but he would still have his doubts. P accepts nothing without solid evidence.

Q: And yet he believes in luck with no evidence at all.

A: P is a contradiction.
_______________________________

I'd like to hear your responses to the question. Email me at prestonthewriterallen@gmail.com.

Respond to these questions:

1) If you were living in Europe in 1490, would you believe that the world was flat?

2) If you were living in Europe in 1493, would you believe the new theory that the world was round?

Thanks,

Preston

They're Reading Me in New York

2008-05-10T08:16:00.000-07:00

Q: I don’t really have a question but I just finished reading “All or Nothing” and I wanted to tell you that I thoroughly enjoyed the book. My favorite parts were how the protagonist seemed so real and how even though he loved his wife, he left her to go gamble. I also picked up on the fact that he really loved C.L. too, but when the chips were down he left C.L. because she was barred from Las Vegas for her crime against the casinos; in other words, she could not gamble now either. I think what sets your book apart from other books on this subject is that it is a story first and foremost—it is not really about gambling, it is about the man P and his family and loved ones. It is also a story that is unpredictable. I kept thinking that the book would go in one direction, but then it went in another better one. You are great at creating characters and making us like them or understand them so easily! Every character in the book is memorable: the professor, P, the wife, the lucky son, C.L., E.V., S, U, the father, the mother, and the fat girl. I don’t know if this makes sense, but when the book was over, I wanted to keep on knowing these people.

Even though the book is about some dark things, it kept me smiling all the way through. You were able to tell a fairly frightening story because you are so good at humor. I read a copy of your book in the library here in Brooklyn, but now I am going out to purchase a copy of it. Great Job!!!! You rank up there with the great ones.

I saw that you did a reading up her in Brooklyn last year. Please keep us informed on your blog when you plan to come back to the NY area.

A: Thank you for that great feedback. Please go out and tell all of your friends who are reading it in the library to buy a copy of the book too.

Yes, I had a great time in NY. We did readings in Brooklyn and Manhattan. As Arnold said, “NY, I’ll be back.”

Thanks,

Preston

How Long Does It Take to Get a Ph.D in Creative Writing?

2008-05-06T05:30:00.000-07:00

Q: How long does it take to get a Ph.D in creative writing?

A: Wow! Boy, did I open up a can of worms with that last question. Okay, here is what I am going to do during my brief (6 days left) vacation. I am going to go through the various US CRW programs and begin compiling a list of MFA and Ph.D programs. I hope to have a substantial portion of it up by Thursday.

Thanks.

Preston

How Long Does It Take to Get an MFA in CRW?

2008-05-05T06:32:00.000-07:00

Q: I enjoyed your book, ALL OR NOTHING, especially the gambling scenes in the Indian Casinos in Miami. I was very excited reading those thrilling scenes and it made me realize that gambling is the same no matter where you live. I lived in New Jersey back in the 80s and those scenes brought back a lot of Atlantic City memories for me. I have a granddaughter in high school who is a good writer and she has spoken about wanting to be a novelist. I notice that you have an MFA. About how much does it cost to get an MFA and about how long does it take?

A: Thanks for reading the book. About the MFA, well, the cost and time will all depend on what school she gets into. My friend Lisa Shaw has allowed me to borrow a list she recently compiled of the credit requirements of about three dozen MFA programs.

MFA Credit Requirements: A Sampling

36-40 Credit Hours

Bowling Green S. U.
Brooklyn College
New School
North Carolina State
Notre Dame University
Queens College (CUNY)
University of Georgia
University of Maryland
University of Southern California
University of Wisconsin (Madison)
University of Wyoming

42-48 Credit Hours

Arizona State
Boise State
Florida International University
Naropa
Oregon State
Syracuse
University of Miami
University of Baltimore
University of Florida
University of Iowa
University of Massachusetts
University of Pennsylvania
University of South Florida

50-60 Credit Hours

American University
Columbia University
Indiana University
Virginia Tech
Iowa State
San Francisco State
University of Idaho
University of Nevada Las Vegas

You know what? This list is a good idea. I am going to be updating and adding to this list periodically, so come back and check it from time to time--I am personally interested in the other state of Florida schools like UCF, FAU, FSU and so on, but eventually I hope to compile a list of all North American MFA programs.

Thanks for the question. You've given me a mission.

Preston

Skin and Genitals

2008-05-02T11:31:00.000-07:00

I am so back logged with emails to answer because of my unexpected hiatus, but it is amazing how many people keep asking me Obama, Clinton, McCain?

People, get a grip. I am a novelist. I write stories. I can't and won't tell you for whom you should vote--although I will tell you that I am proud of my student Lazaro Coralles for taking 3rd Prize in a contest sponsored by Bedford/St. Martins that posed the prompt: "What Barack Obama's candidacy has taught us about race relations in America."

The complete list of winners is as follows.

First place winner: Jessica Arias, Wolfson Campus
Second place: Dinkinish O'Connor, North Campus
Third place: Lazaro Corrales, North Campus

Congrats Lazaro--it was great having you as a student.

Congrats Dinkinish--who is also one heck of a poet--she may not know it, but her "War" poem was submitted as the North Campus entry to the League for Innovation Prize.

Congrats to Jessica--I do not know you, but if you beat Lazaro and Dinkinish in a writing contest, you are formidable.

Now, for the rest of you around the globe and your Obama, Clinton, McCain questions--I do have something to say to you.

Shame on you. Grow up.

It is the year 2008 and we finally have a serious African American, female, and elderly presidential candidate. Why did it take so long? Why is it such a big deal?

I can't wait for the day when we have had seven women presidents, six African American presidents, four elderly presidents, five Jewish presidents, five Catholic presidents, six Asian presidents, five Latino presidents, nine native American Presidents, four gay presidents (openly gay, that is--who knows--we may already have had ten gay presidents, and at least four who were bi-curious), three transgender presidents, four Mormon presidents, seven Jehovah's Witness presidents, four Muslim presidents, five Hindu presidents, six atheist presidents (openly), seven Inuit presidents, and ten presidents who have to list themselves as "Other."

I can't wait for that great day to come when we can vote for people because they are qualified, and not because they have a color that we like. Color? Color? What are we, still in kindergarten?

My dad's whiter than your dad, my dad's whiter than yours

Shame on us--we are the leaders of the free world. Let's act like it.

As a child (and then again as an adult), I won many awards that had the words "black," "Negro," or "African American" on them. Thanks, thanks, thanks for the awards, guys--they helped to make me the man I am today, I am truly grateful--but the cataloguing always gave me pause.

As a child (and then again as an adult) I was often told, you are the first black this, or the first black that, or you're the first black we've ever had working here, or doing this, or holding this position, or sitting in this seat, or chairing this committee. Once again, thanks, thanks, thanks, I love you all, thanks for giving me the many opportunities that I have had and continue to have in this great country--but what's all this about being the first black?

I know that you think you are honoring me when you say that, but can't you see how self-serving your placement of the superlative "first black" is on anything that I have achieved?

When you say, "Preston, you are the first black to work for this company," what you are really saying is this: "Preston, you are the first black that we have allowed to work for this company. See how great we are for allowing you to work here? See how much we have changed? Once upon a time we didn't allow any blacks to work here, but now we are changing and you are the first to benefit from the change. Aren't we cool for doing that? And don't you feel fortunate for being the first?"

When I was in college, I was told after a job interview for a part-time job delivering pizzas, "You got the job--you've got a lot of experiene doing this kind of thing and whatnot--but I think I need to warn you that there are a lot of people who work here in this store who may not be happy with you working here. And there are a lot of families in the neighborhoods we serve that might not be happy to open up and find you knocking on their doors."

I said, "Am I still going to get paid?"

The interviewer said, "Well, yes, of course."

I said, "Then I would rather get paid by people who dislike me than not get paid by people who like me. I have a family to feed. I've got school fees to pay. I am black. I'm used to being disliked."

That's sort of how the conversation went, and I got the job and became the first black pizza man to work for that company and deliver in that exclusive part of town.

So what?

How juvenile. How shallow.

What kind of achievement is that? The first black?

People, you have to understand that achievements of that sort are only important in a country that admits that it has a history of racism. If you are racist, then it is significant when someone from the targeted minority is able to break through the discriminatory barriers that you have placed to hold them back. In other words, "Preston L. Allen is the first black writer to publish a book with us because as you know we are fairly racist in our attitudes toward blacks, but his book is so good that . . ."

Now if they are not racist, then they might say, "We have just published a new book by Preston L. Allen on such and such a subject . . ." The end.

In other words, if you truly want to stop being perceived as discriminatory, then stop making such (loud) note of the first black this and the first black that, the first female this, and the first female that.

I mean, who is the first left-handed president? Who is the first blood type AB positive president? Who is the first president to have excelled at football? Who is the first president to have worn an odd-sized pair of shoes? Who is the first brown-eyed president?

We don't know--because we do not discriminate for, or against, those qualities.

But who was the first president with black skin? And who was the first president with a vagina?

Now every hand in the classroom shoots up.

Do your civic duty and vote, people. But don't vote for skin and genitals--and don't vote against them either.

Grow up. Get out of that superficial kindergarten mentality.

Vote for the candidate that is going to move the country in the direction you think it ought to go.

No more political questions, please. They wear me out.

Thanks,

Preston

Astonishing

2008-04-30T07:35:00.000-07:00

Q: Loved your book. What is the most astonishing thing you have ever seen in a casino?

A: Hmmm. Good question.

I think I may have told this story before on another post, but here goes.

An elderly couple (Canadian, I think) were new to the casino's four-screen build-your-own-lotto machine. So they were complaing and grumbling and asking for help, but no floor person was nearby and none of us regulars would help them.

He was saying, "How does this thing work? How do you get it to play a quarter? Are zeroes the only number that it can play?" The machine showed six zeroes on all four screens.

She was saying, "Let's get someone to help us. Where is everybody? Why will no one help up? I think the machine is stuck on forty. How do you change it? We don't want to bet forty dollars at a time. That's too much."

And they're pushing buttons and grumbling and fiddling with the machine, and I am about to offer my assistance, when all of a sudden I hear their machine pinging like crazy. Ping-ping-ping-ping!

Accidentally, one of them had pushed the PLAY button and six zeroes came out. Six Zeroes!!! They hit on all four screens.

And since their machine was stuck on forty dollars (ten dollaras a screen), they hit $50,000 on each screen--in other words, they hit $200,000 without even knowing what they were doing.

Astonishing.

I was at a table and a guy hit a Royal Flush. So we paused the game so that the Indians could pay him his jackpot ($5,000). Fifteen minutes later, we got back to playing the game, and the guy's eyes grew big again. When he laid down his cards, he had hit another Royal Flush! He hit two Flushes not only at the same table, but in consecutive hands.

Astonishing.

I sat down at a poker table in my favorite seat--seat 3. And I told the dealer, "This is my lucky seat. I have hit 7 Royals in seat 3 so far, so deal me Royal number 8, dealer." On the next hand, he dealt me a spade Royal Flush. The jackpot was $2500.

Astonishing.

A dealer snuck a quarter from the till. This was one of the best dealers in the house. Everybody liked her. She was attractive, humorous, she controlled her table, and she dealt a fast accurate hand. Perhaps she did not sneak the quarter from the till--perhaps she just made an honest mistake. It did not matter. Against the protests of the players, they fired her on the spot for swiping that quarter.

Astonishing.

Preston

Queen of Spades

2008-04-30T07:28:00.000-07:00

Q: I am curious about the story by Pushkin that you refer to in the novel. You refer to it as the "Queen of Spades." I'm not finding it.

A: It is a translation from the Russian, so depending on whose translation you have it might have a slightly different title. I don't have the collection of Pushkin stories in front of me right now, but I am 100% certain my translation had it titled "The Queen of Spades."

Thanks,

Preston

Sex in Gambling

2008-04-30T07:16:00.000-07:00

Q: Is there a lot of sex in gambling?

A: I wouldn't know because I am a virgin. I'll pass your question on to one of my three children, however.

Seriously, though, I have seen some things in the casinos that make me shudder. First, there are the professionals, the prostitutes. Second, there are the gamblers who fall in love with each other. Third, there are those who have fallen on hard times and whose bodies are the final thing they can sell, or exchange, for money to gamble with.

Here's some advice for you non-gambling husbands out there. Always go to the casino with your gambling wife. I you cannot go with her, send her with a lot of money. When she calls you on the phone for more money, do not berate her--send her more money. Remember, there are WAYS for her to make money to gamble with in a casino.

Thanks,

Preston

Short Story Collections

2008-04-21T19:06:00.001-07:00

Q: I just read your Churchboys book. What short story collections inspired you? What short story collections did you read growing up, or did you?

A: I am so backed up right now with old emails to respond to. Thanks for your patience. Your email is fairly new, and I know I should go back and respond to some of the older ones, but I like your question.

Well, the first short story collection I remember reading was Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories. I was very impressed with that book. I believe I was about nine or so, and what I liked was that the stories stood on their own but they were also related through theme, setting, and repetition of certain characters. Not too long after that, I read the 1001 Arabian Nights and Aesop’s Fables; I got the same fuzzy feeling when I recognized the connectedness of the stories as well as their independence. Of course, I read many novels and story collections before I had finished high school, but the collections that I prized almost always had that same dual quality—the short list of the remaining books is familiar, I am sure, but here it is in roughly the order and grade level I encountered each work: Martian Chronicles (10th), I, Robot (10th), 18 Stories by Heinrich Boll (12th), Winesburg, Ohio (12th), Goodbye, Columbus (Freshman year), The Collected Stories of John Cheever (Freshman Year)—and there may very well be others that I have left off the list. Later on in life (when I grew up) I too wanted to write short stories that were connected in some way and yet had the ability to stand on their own. The problem is always which stories to leave in, which stories to leave out. I think poets have this same problem when putting a collection of poetry together.

With the collection Churchboys, except for the Elwyn stories, the religious themes are fairly well muted. It is a religious world—the world of these characters in these stories—but religion is not “the point,” if you know what I mean. In the Elwyn stories, however, religion is the point, and there are four Elwyn stories, which is a lot. I knew I wanted the Elwyn stories to be the focus, but I did not want them to dominate the collection so much so that they would predict the direction of the other pieces—some of which, like I said, are not overtly religious. I solved my problem with placement and omission. First, I started the collection with stories that had strong, first person narrators that were distinctly secular, and only introduced the Elwyn pieces after I had set the tone for the book. Second, though I had written about 12 Elwyn stories up to that point, I only included four in the collection.

I am currently assembling stories for a new collection, and I am encountering a similar problem. The pieces are mostly noirish, so they all kind of work together in that sense, but three of them (of a total of 19) take place in cities other than Miami, five of them have linked characters, and one seems to want to be a novella. We’ll see what happens.

Thanks for the question.

What is the best writing advice anyone ever gave you?

2008-04-04T19:56:00.000-07:00

Q: I hope that you're making lots and lots of money with this novel and I can't wait for your next book to come out. You're an amazing writer. What is the best advice on writing anyone ever gave you? Thanks.

A: Everytime I get this question I think I answer something different because I have received some pretty good advice from some pretty knowledgeable writers, but from now on I am going to stick to this answer. Write every day. Every day.

I get up every morning at about 5:00 a.m. and write for a half hour to an hour. I produce about two books per year this way.

Now here is something neat that has recently happened. On Good Friday of this year, I wrote pretty much all day and I produced an entire novella. I am calling it THE MAN FROM IOWA, and it's about the gruesome murder of a child and the murderer's plea for forgiveness.

On Good Friday of 2001, I also wrote all day and produced an entire novella, which I later revised and expanded into my full-length novel COME WITH ME SHEBA.

I've really been in a zone the last month or so; I finished up a short story collection LOG ON, SOCIOPATH--which is a collection of dark, noirish pieces featuring a group of real crazies that Edgar Allan Poe would have been proud of.

Here's my advice to you: write every day.

Thanks for the email.

Preston

By the way, I apologize to you all for not blogging for the last month or so. I've been busy writing. Duh.

Preston

My Interview with Ingrid Winston

2008-04-04T19:54:00.000-07:00

v When were you born?
v I was born in 1964.

v I read that you were born on Roatan. How long did you live in Honduras, and is Roatan the only place you lived in Honduras?
v Roatan is the only place I have lived in Honduras, and I lived there until I was 3.

v Did you move straight from Honduras to the U.S., or did you live somewhere else also?
v We moved straight to the U.S., to Staten Island, New York.

v What was it like growing up in Honduras?
v I left at too young an age to have enough memories to answer that question. I grew up in the U.S., and I lived here as both an American (because of my neighbors and school friends) and as a Honduran (because of my family and the sizable Honduran communities in Staten Island, Roxbury, and Miami). What I know about life in Roatan I learned through my experiences here in this country with those from Roatan who had created a community here in the U.S.—the food, the music, the religion, the family histories, and so on.

v What was it like to transition from a Spanish speaking country to the U.S.? Was it difficult?
v For the people of Roatan, there is only a cultural transistion, not a linguistic one because Roatan is an English-speaking Island, though it belongs to Spanish-speaking Honduras. So the people of Roatan speak English at home first and then learn Spanish when they get old enough to go to school. When I first came to the U.S. in the 1960s, I had never seen a TV, an automobile, indoor toilets, and so on, but that was back then. Today, Roatan has all of those things and more. The big difference between Roatan and the U.S. these days is, as always, the pacing of things. Roatan is slow and familiar. Things move slowly and everyone knows you and your family—the island is not very large. The U.S. is fast-paced, of course, and somewhat impersonal.

v Why did you leave Honduras?
v My parents left for the economic and educational opportunities that America offered.

v When did you begin writing?
v I have always written because I have always read. Few things make me sadder than students who say, “I want to be a writer, but I hate to read.” My earliest memory of writing and of thinking about becoming a writer of books came somewhere around 3rd or 4th grade. In 6th grade, I wrote the school play. At home, I wrote stories for and with my four younger brothers—we all loved reading and writing. My first serious attempts at writing came around junior high when I met a generous English teacher who agreed to edit my work for me in exchange for reading the classics in literature, which she loaned me. By senior year I was hanging out with other students who wrote. In college, I had a shoe box filled with stories and half stories that I had written. I majored in English. Then, later on in grad school, I earned the MFA in Creative writing.

v How do you decide what to write about?
v I write to understand. When things trouble or confuse me, I write about them so that I have a better understanding of what is actually going on. My latest novel, ALL OR NOTHING (Akashic 2007), is about gambling addiction. Read that book and you will see what I mean. My first collection of stories, CHURCHBOYS AND OTHER SINNERS (Carolina Wren Press 2003), explored the relationship between man, God, and carnal desires.

v When I was researching Honduran writers of African or Caribbean descent, it was very difficult to find information. Do you have any idea why that might be?
v There are not many of us, and most of us young ones have not made our marks yet. It becomes easier to be researched when others have actually written essays or theses about your works. Furthermore, black Hondurans are pretty much invisible. You see, on the island of Roatan there is another and more famous group of Afro-Hondurans, who are called GARIFUNA—they speak an African language, not English or Spanish (of course, they learn both of those languages to survive on the island). There are many books written about the GARIFUNA, their language, and their traditions. I am not a GARIFUNA. I speak English. My people, former British slaves, are called BAY ISLANDERS and we live in Honduras on the bay islands of Roatan, Utilla, and Guanaja. There are relatively few books written about BAY ISLANDERS. There is another reason that, perhaps, we are not better known and researched—we do not write about the Latin American experience because we are not Latinos despite the Latino culture of the place where we are born—we write about the Caribbean experience in a fashion that is similar to the Jamaicans, Bahamians, and Trinidadians. Remember, our first language is English not Spanish.

v Do you think it’s difficult for Honduran writers of African decent to publish their work in Honduras? If so, why?
v I could not answer that question because I have never tried to do that. My feeling, however, is that it would not be too difficult to do. In fact, the Honduran Chamber of Commerce in Miami has contacted me several times to host events and whatnot.

v Have you ever faced any discrimination in your writing career?
v Racial discrimination? Sexual discrimination? Ethnic discrimination? I am not sure if I have experienced any of these because I am so good at what I do (a little bragging) that people tend to like my work—they focus on the work and not on me. Let’s see, I had a white agent tell me once that my characters were not “black” enough. I am still not sure what he meant by that. I have had editors tell me to change my characters from “black” to “normal.” I have had fans and editors question my sexuality because so many of my earlier stories (in Brown Sugar 1, Brown Sugar 2, Brown Sugar 3, Brown Sugar 4) were written from a woman’s point of view. One email said, “Are you a woman? Is ‘Preston’ like a name for a woman? Or are you a gay male? I am not trying to offend you, but you write very well as a woman. You seem to know what you are talking about.” I had trouble selling a story that I thought was great, so I changed the protagonist from a black male to a white male and sold it right away—now that is no sign that I had faced racism or discrimination because maybe the story just worked better with a white protagonist. At any rate, I didn’t worry about it. I just cashed the check. These days, I publish pretty much whatever I write because I am becoming better known, I have more connections in the writing world, and my skills as an artist are continuing to grow.

v Did you ever experience it while in Honduras, and how does it compare to racism in the U.S.?
v No.

v I read that you would like to become one of the most famous Honduras writers out there. How do you want to accomplish this goal?
v That was a joke that I told someone a long time ago and somehow it got printed on the internet, and now people take it seriously. That is not a goal. How could that be a goal? Now they’re even altering the wording. What I actually said was this: My goal is to become the most famous Afro-Honduran American writer ever to graduate from Florida International University with an MFA in creative writing. Get it? Get the joke? I already am the most famous Afro-Honduran American writer ever to graduate from Florida International University with an MFA in creative writing. No other Afro-Honduran American writer has ever attended the school, so that makes me # 1. Get the joke? How many Afro-Honduran American writers from Florida International University do you know? And if by chance you do know of another one, I am sure that I have published more than him/her so far.

v Where do you see your writing career going in the future?
v My goal is to become the most famous Afro-Honduran American writer ever to graduate from Florida International University with an MFA in creative writing. That is just a joke! Just a joke!!! Hahahaha. But to get back to the question, I imagine that my serious literary work is going to be read in colleges and high schools. Some of my work for popular audiences has already been optioned for film, so it is only a matter of time before you see my stories on TV or in the movie theaters. It would be nice to write a major bestseller and make lots of money. However, for a writer such as I, success is not measured in dollar bills, but in a job well done. In short, my writing career will see me taking on greater artistic challenges. Currently I have been shopping around an Edgar Allan Poe-like short story collection and the full-length novel THE FAITHFUL, which is the complete story of 16-year-old Elwyn and 40-year-old Sister Morrisohn, whose illicit affair began in CHURCHBOYS AND OTHER SINNERS. I have completed a novella called THE MAN FROM IOWA, which is the story of a murderer who gets religion, turns himself into the police, and then seeks forgiveness from society and the family of the boy her murdered. You can find my latest short story in a collection called LAS VEGAS NOIR (Akashic 2008)—the story is called “Crip.”

Great New Review from Florida Book Review

2008-02-08T12:18:00.000-08:00

I have a couple good emails that I want to respond to, but I just got an outstanding review on ALL OR NOTHING by reviewer John Rodonis and the great people at FLORIDA BOOK REVIEW (http://www.floridabookreview.com/id1.html) that I'd like to share with you.

. . . Allen examines the flaming abyss compulsive gambling burns in its victims’ guts, self-esteem and bank accounts, the desperate, myopic immediacy it incites, the self-destructive need it feeds on, the families and relationships it destroys. For with gamblers, it really is all or nothing. Usually nothing. Take it from a reviewer who’s been there. Allen is right on the money here.

"If someone says, Buy some medicine for me with this $20, my life depends on it, and you go to the casino, you will blow all of your money, all of the money in your ATM up to the daily maximum, then dig around in your pockets for whatever spare change you have remaining, and blow the $20 your friend gave you, whether his life depends on it or not. You will leave with nothing. Every penny you have goes into the machines because you never know when lady luck is going to dance with you. Tonight, I blew all of my loose cash, blew my daily max on the ATM, then went out to the car and found three quarters and 26 pennies in the toll tray. That made a dollar. That was all I needed."

. . . Allen constructs his plot around wild, sometimes convenient, swings of fortune. P. befriends “C.L.,” a slot-crazed woman he employs to curb his own compulsivity. Soon after, just as casino security closes in on a disguised P who has been barred due to never elaborated on IRS problems, P makes one final desperation slot play and wins $160,000. When he brings his winnings home, his wife, sick of it all, dumps him, refusing the money. P and C.L. move on to Las Vegas where P. discovers—at least for a time—a heretofore unknown discipline and success.

After P. strikes it rich, women are more than willing to “barter” with him in his suite for money to scratch that indelible itch. “C.L.,” “E.V.,” “S.” and “Missy” (the “twelve-step” initialization of names reminds us that these people are addicts), are female characters so degenerately entrenched in “the game” they’ll do anything for another chance to “hit it hard” at the one-arm-bandits, chasing the “ping ping” payoff of hitting “the big one.” P.’s willingness to fund their addiction is their “luck.” As for what happens to his, you’ll have to read the book.

All or Nothing is a recommended read, one that weaves a world where people live and die waiting for “their numbers” to appear in ordered redemption. And if this place proves unrecognizable, then the reader has certainly had little experience gambling.

And my most earnest advice would be to keep it that way.

John Rodonis.

You can check out the complete review at the Florida Book Review's Website. It's worth a visit: http://www.floridabookreview.com/id1.html

Is Writing for Everyone?

2008-02-07T07:10:00.000-08:00

"Professor I am amazed at your gift. Not everyone can write, especially when it comes to putting words (not just any words) together. It is said that a writer has a profound imagination. I can truly relate. My imagination is interesting. Certain things that come to my mind are like, huh? I always wanted to write a book, but fear would always prevent me. What do you think? Should I? You are the perfect person to answer me honestly. May your imagination, produce more books for me and for everyone else! M.M."

Thanks for the question, M.M.

Is writing for everyone? That is a good question. I'm going to begin my answer by paraphrasing something I heard around the time I was in grad school, though I am not sure who said it, or where I heard it from. It is this: By the time you are 16, you have at least one book in you--your autobiography; by the time you are sixty, you have at least one other book in you, someone else's biography--your husband's, your child's.

I believe that we do have several books in us. Are we willing to do the work to get to the place where we are skilled enough to set these stories down? Do we have the drive (or endurance) to write 300 to 400 pages? I believe that it can be done. I believe that each of us can write that ONE book at least.

But does writing that one book make you a WRITER? Do you love words and sentences? Do you yourself love to read? Do you have many stories in your head? Are you constantly trying to phrase things more beautifully, more forcefully? Do you love the craft of writing and revision?

No, in that sense, I do not believe that writing is for everyone, or more correctly stated, not everyone is a writer.

Thus, everyone can write at least one book; but not everyone is a WRITER.

Everyone has at least one story to tell, but a writer is a storyTELLER, descended from a long, proud tradition of storytellers, extending back to a time before there was even such a thing as the written word.

In fact, go read this very brief but cool story by Spencer Holst, "The Zebra Storyteller," and you'll see what I'm talking about. It has me nodding my head everytime I read it.

http://www.archipelago.org/vol3-1/holst.htm

Thanks, MM, now go write that book. You have passed the landmark of 16. After you have finished that book, if you still have the drive to write then you are probably a writer. Welcome to the family.

Preston

How Do You Write a Lisp?

2008-02-05T09:32:00.000-08:00

"Preston L. Allen, I loved ALL OR NOTHING. I'm glad I met you on Goodreads. I'm honored to have such a great writer to correspond with back and forth like this. Isn't technology wonderful? As you know, I am still working on my science fiction novel and I agreed with you and some others who have read it that the character [ ]'s lisp is not working. One of my readers even suggested that I get rid of it. But I like the lisp. It sets him apart from the other warriors and I think it adds humor. Any suggestions? Sci-fi guy."

Thanks for the email and for reading the novel, Sci-fi guy. Here's something you can do. I'd like you to go and buy a little novel called PUSH by Sapphire which was published a couple years ago. After you have read the first few chapters of that book, I want you to reflect on the severity of the main character's poor grammar and non-standard dialect. It is pretty bad, isn't it? Clarice Precious Jones is a child of the ghetto and she speaks like one.

Now I want you to reflect on how relatively easy it was for you to UNDERSTAND everything that Clarice was saying, despite her use of non-standard English. Does this surprise you?

Finally, I want you to go back and re-read Clarice's words, paying attention to how much non-standard stuff is actually there on the page.

Are you surprised that the actual stuff on the page is not as poorly written as you originally thought? It sounds worse in your head than it actually is on the page.

Remember this rule: More is less and less is more.

What writers do when they are creating dialogue for characters who speak with an accent, or who speak a non-standard English, or who are afflicted with speech impediments is that they SPRINKLE THE SOUND OF THE LANGUAGE in the reader's head: in other words, they give you a sampling of the way the speaker sounds and then your brain continues to hear it each time the character speaks.

For example, they may have a character say, "Zees is not so good. I zink that I will have to leave before your theater group arrives. Your director does not like me too mucho, I zink."

Your brain hears a heavy accent, but when you see the actual sentences, only the words this (zees), think (zink), and much (mucho) are non-standard. If you sprinkle the sound of the accent in strategic places, the reader's brain will hear the accent everywhere (less is more).

On the other hand, look at this passage: "Zees ees no so gut. I zink zet I weel hef to leef before jour zeater groupo will to arrives. Jour deerictor doos no to liki me too mucho, I zink."

This passage has more of the accent, but it is rather difficult to read--imagine trying to read an entire page of it. Instead of allowing the brain to HEAR the accent of the speaker, a passage with too much dialect sprinkled in creates a problem in comprehension (more is less). Furthermore, It may create humor where none is intended, or it may offend the speakers of that dialect (or speakers with that speech impediment) where no offense is intended.

So in the case of your character [ ]'s lisp, I think what we readers found when we reviewed it is that there was too much of a lisp. It became annoying after a while and didn't really add anything to the character, except a cheap laugh. Sprinkle in a little bit of the lisp, however, and the scene will read a lot better.

I hope this helps, Sci-fi guy. Keep on writing!

By the way, you didn't give me your interpretation of my dreams.

Thanks,

Preston

The Interpretation of Dreams

2008-02-03T12:30:00.000-08:00

Interpretation of dreams anyone?

I’ve been having some pretty strange dreams, so I am putting this up on both of my blogs to get some feedback.

My Aunt Exposed

In the first dream, I walk into my aunt’s room, mistaking it for the bathroom, and find her lying in bed with her breasts uncovered. She is an older woman and her breasts are very large and very black. She tries to cover them, but the sheets keep falling away from them. I am stunned, embarrassed, and I back out of her room apologizing profusely.

What does this mean?

Well, a good friend of mine, mostly in jest, provided an interpretation: “Subconsciously, you want your family to keep their secrets to themselves. They have been revealing things to you of late that you do not want to know. You wish they would not tell you these things. You do not want to know these things.”

Wow. My friend may have been kidding around, but his interpretation rang true for me. I have of late learned some dark family secrets that both saddened and angered me, and one of these secrets does in fact involve my aunt.

The second dream is even weirder.

My House Invaded

In the second dream, my wife and I are in our bathroom brushing our teeth as we do every morning when a tall, innocent-faced young man reaches over my shoulder for one of our toothbrushes to brush his own teeth. I react with shock and anger, telling him to get out of our bathroom.

As the young man retreats apologizing, I ask my wife: “Who is that guy?”

She jokes: “He is my boyfriend.”

I say, “You’re kidding, right?”

She says, “Of course. He looks twelve, if that.”

When we leave the bathroom and enter our own room, my mother-in-law is on our bed with our son, who is 13, but in the dream he is much young, maybe 6 or 7. I am alarmed that there are people crowded into the room, opening closet doors and looking through our things. As I recognize some of their faces, I realize what has gone wrong. The college where I teach is having some sort of event and the attendees got the wrong address and ended up at our house instead. I say to my son, “Get these people out of here. Show them how to get to the college.”

Then my little son gets up from his grandmother’s lap and begins to lead the people out of our room, out of our house and I suppose to the college.

Then I leave my house (I can’t remember the reason why) and I become disoriented when I try to find my way back. I can’t find my own house. Everything looks familiar, the neighborhood, the houses, the cars, but my memory lapse is so severe I can’t remember which street I must go down in order to get back to my own house. At that point in the dream, I say to myself, “If I were in my car I would know how to get back home, but not on foot. I am lost on foot.”

When I spy a familiar security guard from the college, I say to him, “Which direction are you going in? I need to get home.”

The guard, who is wearing his neatly-pressed black uniform, says, “I am going to the college. I can only take you as far as the college because I have to clock in.”

This sounds good to me. I am convinced that if I can get to the college, everything will look familiar and I can find my way home from the college as a starting point.

So I follow the security guard, who for some reason gets out of his car and leaves it behind. We are walking through another familiar looking neighborhood that I can feel in my bones is near where I live, but I cannot figure out how to get home from here. If I had my car, however, I could turn down each and every street until I found the one that was mine. But on foot like this, it is too much of an effort to go down every street one at a time. I am so weary for some reason, so exhausted.

The security guard stops at a tree-lined section of the neighborhood and lights a torch and begins to set the trees on fire. The fire leaps from one tree to the next. He stands back and asks, “Do you think they will all burn?”

I say, “No. The fire will stop after that tree.” I point to a gap in the trees behind the houses. “You are going to have to light that second row of trees.”

The guard says, “Okay. You’re going to have to wait until I am done. I have to do this before I clock in.” Then he leaves to go light the second row of trees.

As the trees around me burn, I am upset because my only chance of finding my way home is with the guard and I have no idea how long this new duty of his is going to take. Will I ever get home?

Then I spot another guard from the college, an older, heavy-set female guard who has a reputation for being chatty and friendly. She too is wearing the black uniform. I do not want to betray the first guard, but I have to get home. So I ask the female guard if she can help me find my home and she says, “Hop in.”

I get into her car with the feeling that she is not going to be any more successful in getting me home, but at least I am off my feet. I feel very tired, exhausted. It is good to rest my feet.

I think the dream ends there.

Thanks,

Preston

Rules to Live By

2008-01-26T08:43:00.001-08:00

Wow. This is supposed to be a Q and A blog, but I received so many emails about my advice not to discuss sex, religion, and politics in public that I decided to post the list of advice I received from my three mentors (Adolphus, Garvey, and Anderson) throughout the years--I can't give it all away because the longer version is in book proposal form and I am shopping it. So who knows? You may see it in book stores as soon as next year.

Thanks,

Preston
__________________________

A gift list from the Experienced to the Innocent
By Preston L. Allen
From the forthcoming book

51 RULES FOR THE INNOCENT TO LIVE BY (© copyright 2008 Preston L. Allen)

Live by these rules, young people, and your life will have few regrets when you are 30.
--Preston

1) Do not learn to gamble or to play games of chance. It is a vexation to the spirit and the bank account. Learn to play games of skill instead. Games of skill build character and may even add to your bank account. Do all things in moderation. Don’t kid yourself. There is no way to gamble in moderation once you have become addicted.

2) Do not over eat. Do the math. A full year of your adult life will be spent trying to lose every two pounds that you gain now. If you do not want to spend your adult life on diets, this is the time to avoid gaining weight.

3) Master a skill. Learn to play the piano. Learn to play the violin. Learn to paint. Learn to rebuild an engine. If you do it now while you are young, you have time to master it. It will be hard to find time to master it if you begin when you are an adult. Yes, you can learn it in adulthood, but free time is a gift for the young. With enough free time, you can learn to do anything. Anything.

4) Do not over indulge in sleep. Life is lived while awake. Live life. Free time for young people like you should be spent with your eyes open. Do not become addicted to sleep. Sleep, like procrastination, is the thief of time. Watching TV, too much TV, is a kind of sleep. Do not over indulge in this TV sleep either.

5) Get a good night’s sleep. A proper amount of sleep restores the body. Do not rob the body of sleep. Do all things in moderation. You need not be awake all the time.

6) Never let your boss catch you sleepy or asleep. Always appear alert in the presence of your superiors. This is a key to wealth.

7) Do not smoke. There is no need to spend your adult life trying to kick the habit. Do not begin the habit. You have better things to do with your time and your money. But if you must smoke, smoke a pipe or a cigar, but then only once in a while to relax or to celebrate. Do all things in moderation.

8) Do not use illegal drugs. There is no need to spend your adult life trying to kick the habit—and hiding from the police AND your own children. If an illegal drug becomes legal, do not use it. That it was once an illegal drug should answer all of your questions about it. You have better things to do with your time and money.

9) Do not drink alcoholic beverages. There is no need to spend your adult life trying to kick the habit. Do not begin the habit. But if you must drink strong drink, drink wine or champagne and then only once in a while to relax or to celebrate. Do all things in moderation.

10) Join a gym and develop a regular habit of exercise. But do all things in moderation. Do not become a gym freak. Be normal. There are many young women who are attracted to the strong, but slender type of man. There are many young men who are attracted to the healthy, fit, but fleshy woman. Almost no one is attracted to excess. Do all things in moderation. To some, being too skinny or too muscular is as unattractive as being too fat or too soft and flabby.

11) Eat breakfast every day.

12) Go to the dentist. You do not want to lose your teeth. You will regret it forever. Teeth are a gift.

13) Go to the doctor. You have time for it. You do. Your good health is a gift.

14) The worst place to look for a job is in the newspaper. Consult the newspaper if you want to get a job in network marketing or selling plastic jewelry door to door. Ignore those ads that read “$5,000.00 a month guaranteed, no degree necessary.” It sounds good, but that ad is a lie. Go get a degree and get a real job. There are no short cuts in life.

15) A good way to get a job is to volunteer. Go to a company that you like or perhaps would like to work for and volunteer a few hours a week for a few months. If you do a good enough job, they will probably offer you a real job with pay. Furthermore, if you volunteer at a company, you get to know people; remember, often it is who you know, not what you know, that gets you the job. Finally, if you volunteer at the company, you are often privy to inside information about jobs that are not posted to the public. Or while at the company, you might see someone doing a job that you like but hadn’t ever heard of before. “What exactly is your job title?” you might ask her. “And what do you do? It seems interesting.” Conversations like this often lead to fun and interesting jobs that others might never even think of applying for.

16) You can have anything you want if you give enough other people what they want. This is a key to wealth.

17) Get your money out of the bank and into a solid investment program as soon as you possibly can. This is a key to wealth.

18) Before you pay your bills, pay yourself. Set aside a little money for fun. Have fun with your money. This is a key to happiness.

19) Purchase a house as soon as you possibly can. Renting makes no sense. If you rent, your money goes down the drain. A house is a money tree. In the future, after your equity has grown, your house will be worth much more than you owe on it. This equity will be the beginning of wealth for you. You will probably, and you should, purchase several more houses—not to live in, but to rent to others. Renting houses you own is not as hard as you think. It is quite easy, in fact. The fruit will continue to grow on your money tree. This is a key to wealth.

20) Beware of credit cards. Why do you need seven, ten, or even twenty credit cards? You need only three—a major credit card (Visa or Mastercard), an American Express, and one gas card. Credit cards are not money. Credit cards allow you to purchase mostly worthless trinkets today for all of the precious money you will make tomorrow. Credit cards can get you into a lot of trouble if you do not handle them responsibly. When you see yourself sinking into credit card debt, talk to your parents immediately and beg them to bale you out—I don’t care how deep in the hole you are. Ask them for help. It is better for them to bale you out before you ruin your credit. Turn to them. They will understand. Parents know more than you think they do. They have experienced more than you think they have. I am willing to bet that your parents have a bad credit story buried somewhere deep in their closet. They were young once too.

21) Do not ruin your credit rating. But be grateful that if you ruin your credit rating in our country that all is not lost. A bad credit rating does not last forever. If there are no more problems and you pay off your old debt, or make settlements with your lenders, you will be credit worthy again in 5 to 7 years. You are young. Five to seven years without credit will not kill you. Use those 5 to 7 years to ponder what you did wrong and to practice good credit habits so that when you are again able to borrow, you will borrow responsibly.

22) Purchase your first car with the help of a parent or older relative or friend. If it is a used car, have a trusted mechanic check it out first. If it is a new car, negotiate the best deal you can and then ask to see the rebate check. These days ninety percent of all new cars have some sort of rebate from the manufacturer. Don’t let the salesman (or saleswoman) fool you. Demand your rebate check.

23) Do not speed when you drive. There is no need to speed, ever. A car going a safe forty or fifty or fifty-five miles per is faster than any horse the minutemen ever rode, and they were always on time. You do not want ever to crash a car. You do not want to deal with insurance, police officers, courts, the other driver if there be another car involved, and you do not want to deal with death. Death is permanent. So is paralysis. The car is a great gift. Use it wisely.

24) Learn a sport, and practice it to the point where you become good at it. This is now your sport, should anyone ask you.

25) Learn to play golf, or racquetball, or tennis, or ping pong, or to shoot pool. You need not be good at it (unless it is your sport). You need only be competent. If it is your sport, then strive to be good at it.

26) Do not discuss sex, politics, or religion in public.

27) “But is there a God, Preston? The preacher says yes. The scientist says no.” Well, does He live in your heart? Yes? No? You have your answer. That’s all you need to know, young people. What is there to discuss? Why do we have to argue over this? And in public?

28) Do not use profanity in public, unless you absolutely have to, especially in front of the opposite sex. Use profanity only with your close friends and kin—though never with your parents, no matter your age or theirs. Profanity may be a part of your private face, if you like, but never with your parents.

29) To be an adult means that you must occasionally tell a lie. Find one person that you can always tell the truth to, and tell him/her the truth after you have told others the necessary lie.

30) Do not argue with fools. Do not do it—especially in public. The Bible says that He that argues with a fool is a fool himself. That makes sense to me.

31) Pay attention in your English classes. Read great books. Read more than you watch TV. When you do watch TV, in between the silliness, listen to and model people who speak well. Learn to be comfortable speaking in public. Join a school or college club and become an officer, preferably the club’s president. Enjoy your role as leader. Learn to give orders. Learn to fight for causes. Learn to motivate others. This is a key to wealth.

32) Pay attention in math classes. Math is not difficult. Math is philosophy. Math is a game. Learn the rules and learn to play the game. The great professions—medicine, law, business, engineering—do not require that you know math. The great professions require that you did well in math. So do well in it. Don’t depend on your teachers to teach it to you, either. Go out and do some study on your own. Math is really not hard at all. It just has a lot of rules.

33) Learn a trade while you are young. If your career does not kick in right away, you should be able to sustain yourself by cutting hair, doing hair, playing piano at churches, giving instrument and voice lessons to children, working as an electrician’s assistant, fixing leaky roofs, hanging closet doors, and so on. Such skills and trades can also help you to pay for your education when scholarships, loans, and fellowships fall short.

34) Learn a foreign language. Master a foreign language.

35) Smell nice. Spend money on cologne and perfume. The nose will get you in good with people. It is better for a young man to wear too much cologne than too little. Your scent will linger long after you have left. This is not a bad thing, unless you are wearing an obnoxious scent. A young woman should always smell nice. Make sure your breath smells nice, too. The better you smell, the closer people will get to you, the more they will like you. You will also become more attractive in their eyes because of your nice smell, believe it or not.

36) Be beautiful by your own standard. Don’t try to be beautiful by someone else’s standard. Be the most beautiful you that you can be, and never let that standard lag.

37) Have a public face and a private face. Be careful who you show your public face to. Do not insult your mother and father and siblings by showing them your public face unless you are in public.

38) Learn to say thank you. Learn to say you’re welcome. Spend some money on a nice set of thank you cards. People are so happy when you thank them. This is a key to wealth.

39) Give compliments. Give compliments for a job well done, or for a noble effort. Recognize those who do exceptional deeds with a compliment and they will continue to bless us with these deeds. People are so happy when they receive genuine compliments. This is a key to wealth.

40) Remember birthdays and anniversaries. Write them down in a book. People are so happy when you remember their special days. This is a key to wealth.

41) Smile. People like people who smile. This is a key to wealth.

42) Be friendly and conversational in public. People like a good conversationalist. Learn to bend a good conversation, but do not gossip. Avoid those who gossip.

43) Admire beauty, but put your faith in intelligence, experience, a good work ethic, and integrity. Beauty without intelligence, experience, a good work ethic, or integrity is one paycheck away from prostitution. This is a key to wealth. Likewise, admire talent, but put your faith in intelligence, experience, a good work ethic, and integrity. Talent without intelligence, experience, a good work ethic, or integrity is one paycheck away from bankruptcy. This is a key to weath.

44) Do not make a baby too soon, unless you come from an independently wealthy family. A baby you make too soon can’t help but hinder your progress in life, unless you are independently wealthy. A baby is a joy. A baby is supposed to be a source of much love and a recipient of much love. But a baby made too soon often impoverishes the mother and the mother’s parents. A baby made too soon often turns the father, who is much too young for a father’s responsibilities, into a shirker and a deadbeat. Resentments abound on both sides. In the best of situations, a baby made too soon is a harsh lesson about the burden of responsibility for the young parents, who struggle against amazing odds to make it work. More often than not, their ideal vision of love cannot fix the problems they create by making a baby too soon. This is a key to wealth.

45) But take heart, a baby you make too soon does not remain a baby forever. The young father who turns his back on a baby he made too soon will soon grow to regret it. The young mother who bore a baby too soon quickly learns that the hardest parts come at the beginning when the baby first arrives, then they get easier as the baby develops into a young child, and they become mostly bearable and mostly routine when the baby starts going to school. Finally, when the baby grows into adulthood, the mother has lost all of the disadvantages of making a baby too soon and is now seeing the advantages. In fact, she may look all around her and see the interesting ironies: women her age (mid to late 30s) trying with the help of medical professionals to get pregnant, for sometimes it is difficult at that age to get pregnant; and women her age changing the diapers of children they recently bore. The woman who bore a baby too soon is still a relatively young woman and with her child out of the way, she can devote all of her energies to her education, her career, and her social life without “toddling” interference. Thus, if she is ambitious and is willing to work hard and has the help and support of her own parents (if not the support of her baby’s father), the mother who made a baby too soon eventually finds herself on a par with her peers who did not make a baby too soon, and then sometimes she finds herself having the advantage over them because she made a baby too soon. Life is funny in that way. The lesson is this: a baby born to us is a blessing, no matter how or when it comes to us; never give up on that blessing, especially if you got it too soon.

46) A baby made too soon is an act of ill advised passion, a common but forgivable error of the passionate young heart. A second baby made too soon is evidence of slackness, or perhaps a flaw in your capacity to reason, unless you are independently wealthy. Seek professional help.

47) Learn to listen. Listen to your heart. Do not lie to yourself about what you hear. He may not be the right man for you, but you do love him. Everyone says that you two are perfect for each other, but you know in your heart that you do not love her. Listen to your heart. But remember this: marry with the heart; divorce with the head. Listen to your parents. Listen to them even when they are wrong. Listen. Listen. What are they really saying? Listen to the wise. When you are around someone with genuine wisdom or intelligence, listen more than you speak. Shut your mouth. Learn as much as you can from the experience. Wisdom is a rare and precious commodity. Do not waste your time in the presence of a wise one by discussing your opinions on who will win this year’s World Series. Learn to listen. Learn to ask good questions, then listen to the answer, as it comes from the wise. More than anything, listen to the voice of experience. You do not have to put your hand in the fire to know that it burns. Too many have already burned their hand for you. Learn from their pain. Be wise, not redundant. There is no need to burn your hand. I have done it. I have burned my hand. And let me tell you, young people, it was not worth it. Learn from my pain.

48) Study first. Play later.

49) Work first. Play later.

50) Don’t over work.

51) Don’t over play, but don’t forget to play. Life is fun. Life is good. Life is about play. Life is not about work or study. We work so that we can play. We study so that we can play. Work and study hard so that you can play hard. Do all things in moderation. You will have a good life. Enjoy it.

I Don't Discuss Sex, Politics, and Religion

2008-01-18T23:05:00.000-08:00

"Preston,

It was good meeting you at Elizabeth Nunez's reading. She is amazing, isn't she? Hearing her dynamic presentation and having read the glowing reviews of your novel as I was ordering it on Amazon caused me to wonder at the state of African American literature today. Is it just me, or is anyone else disturbed by the preponderance these days of African American pulp posing as literature? Go to the African American section of your local bookstore and look at the overs, all of which are brightly colored and almost always seem to feature a sexy black woman or a bare-chested, musclebound, tattooed black man pushing tales of sex, infidelity, and a ghetto-fabulous rendition of the Amerian Dream. Is this the only kind of black novel that the publishers will sell? I don't mean to sound angry, but what happened to great black literature? What happened to great black writers? Why are there so few of those books being published and so many of the other? R.T."

Thanks for the email, R.T.

Yours is a good question, but one that I am reluctant to answer, for as a boy I was warned by my mentor that there are three subjects never to discuss in public: Sex, Politics, and Religion.

He could have added a fourth--the history of race in America--which is the issue your question is begging me to address, but which, cleverly, I shall skirt, as I explain, R.T., how you should regard the preponderance of those "colorful covers" in the African American section of your local bookstore.

Be thankful that they are there, for unlike the presence of "great black books," the presence of, or rather abundance of "medium tier black books" is a true sign of progress and/or advances in the field of writing. Allow me to explain.

Great writers shall always be published--great black writers, great white writers, great Asian writers, great Latino writers, great Afghan writers--because great writers shall always find a receptive audience among the learned and those who would learn. Books by writers of great talent abound in college classrooms and on the shelves of those who desire a "good" read. Great writers make their own way, and therefore they are not a sign of progress for the racial identity from which they hail.

Popular books, on the other hand--and I think you mean "popular books" when you say "colorful covers"--indicate a broader reading audience. And a broader reading audience indicates that more people (in the represented racial identity) are reading.

In order to state my point more clearly, let's go to the "white" section of the bookstore. Amazing. It looks a lot like the African American section of the bookstore.

Among the popular "white" books, I see covers with scantily clad women, I see sexy studs, I see guns and knives and blood on the covers, I see sports-themed books, I see self help, I see pop psychology, I see religion. This is what the masses want to read. This is also a sign that there actually still exist masses capable of and willing to read--in this world of TV, movies, and Youtube vying for your entertainment dollar, that sign is a great thing. It shows that reading still matters and that writing is still a viable medium for the transmission of information of interest to the masses.

Then I see the great "white" books and the towering "white" classics, some of which, but not all, are popular. Does this mean that the state of "white" writing is in despair?

Are you getting the point?

See, a popular African American novel is successful because there is a large audience (of African Americans and others) willing to patronize it. Its success indicates that its writer is writing about what the masses (of African Americans and others) want to read. More importantly, its succes indicates that there actually exist masses (of African Americans and others) capable of and willing to read. Its success indicates that reading matters (to African Americans and others) and that writing is a viable medium for the transmission of information of interest to the masses (of African Americans and others).

In fact, if we argue that a particular African American popular novel is NOT A GREAT BOOK we are actually helping to make the argument that its success, then, depends on a large audience eager to read book after book about this particular subject matter or by this particular writer or by writers of this particular racial identity, rather than on the book's own merits as a great work.

In other words, and finally, it should be clear to you now that a popular African American novel is about the audience; a popular African American book says that black people are reading.

However, a great African American novel--by the likes of a Richard Wright, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, Charles Johnson, Ernest J. Gaines, Elizabeth Nunez, or heck even a Preston L. Allen--is about the writer. It says that black people can write great books.

So don't despair, R.T., for those colorful covers that you speak of are a sign of progress.

Black people are reading in record numbers. Now, it is the job of people like you and me, teachers, to get them to read better books.

I hope I was not too political.

Thanks,

Preston

A Creative Writing Exercise

2008-01-17T16:36:00.000-08:00

"Preston, I read in your bio that you hold an MFA and that you have taught creative writing. What is your favorite creative writing exercise? What is the most valuable thing you learned in your MFA program? How did you get the idea to write ALL OR NOTHING? Thanks, a writing student."

Good questions all. I'll handle them in reverse order.

1. I got the impulse to write ALL OR NOTHING because of my experiences in the casino and GA. I write to understand that which I do not understand. I did not understand the tragic things I was witnessing. There was a particular tragedy that I was somewhat close to . . . I myself was almost a tragic statistic. There was a time when I believed that I could not be helped, and it scared me. I opened my mouth to say all this and P's voice came out. At first, I thought that he would speak a short story, then a novella--before I knew it, he had spoken a novel. He had much to say. It is one of two novels I have written from beginning to end in a burst (the other is IMAJ, which is now entitled COME WITH ME, SHEBA). The editing was difficult because even those parts that were removed to improve the book are worthy and true. The book was originally written so that the chapters could be read in any order. Then I met Missy, and put her in the book, and she gave it order.

2. The most valuable lesson I learned in the MFA program is how to tell a story. Beginning, middle, end--it sounds so simple, but I was one of many who did not know what a story was, though from time to time I accidentally told one. I was very artsy before the MFA program--I wanted to impress with words. Now I am more interested in impressing with story. No matter how beautiful be your prose, it is story that the reader remembers. The reader returns to his/her favorite book, for story, not for seamless prose.

I am often a harsh critic of some of the lurid, poorly written works I find on bookstore shelves these days, but to their credit, these novels sell because of one thing: they tell a story (however badly). Here is something to keep in mind, dear writing student--long before the printed word, there was the "Storyteller." We artsy ones often get so caught up in the WAY we tell a story that we forget to actually TELL a story.

Truth be told, I still find it necessary to write short stories that are not really "stories" from time to time because of their other worthy characteristics--such is the nature of the short story, as the prettiness of its writing allows it to hover somewhere between prose and poetry. In fact, some of my favorite short stories are not really "stories": "Orientation" by Daniel Orozco, "Girl" by Jamaica Kincaid, and Italo Calvino's pieces in the venerable masterpiece INVISIBLE CITIES. That is the way it is with short stories from time to time. With my novels, however, I always tell a story. Why else would my reader read all the way to page 300 if not to find out how it all ends? He/she certainly would not read all that way because of my pretty sentences.

3. Two exercises

The End is the Beginning. (plot builder)

Go to a train station or some other public place and watch people. Take notes as you do: the sensory things--the smells, the sounds, the sights. When you find an interesting person (or persons) doing something interesting (or not so interesting--if the homeless man stretches out to sleep on the bench, if the lady in the smart dress kisses her poodle on the nose, if the man in the suit lights a cigarette and smiles), see this as the end of your story. Now write towards this end.

The Hero With No Name. (description, narrative voice)

Set your story in an unremarkable place (at home, at work, train station, grocery store check out lane, bus stop) and people it with normal people doing normal things, except one character who refuses, politely, to state his/her name. You may describe him/her but are not permitted to state the name, and he/she never states the name even in dialogue. Set the story in the third person.

Do Gamblers Really Commit Suicide?

2008-01-15T10:23:00.001-08:00

"Preston,

I must tell you that your book is good but also very scary. Not to take anything away from your skills as a writer and storyteller, but I enjoyed the book especially because of what I learned about the gambling lifestyle as I have many friends who are gamblers or love going to the casino and the dog track.

When reading a book of fiction, however, it is sometimes difficult to tell what is real and what is made up by the writer. Do gamblers really commit suicide a lot? Thanks, a fan."

Oh boy. Gamblers committing suicide. Groan. This is the big one.

Thanks for the question, fan, but I have to admit that this is a serious subject with which I have firsthand experience, but limited knowledge.

Sadly, I must tell you, it does happen.

This is the one aspect of gambling that I don't like talking about, though, as you know, I addressed it in the novel, ALL OR NOTHING.

I find it much easier to handle in the medium of fiction.

One day I will be courageous enough to write a non-fiction piece about it.

I have seen enough of that to make me sick for life. See, because of your addiction you sink so low in self esteem and debt (my god the astronomical debt!) that the only way out for you is a big, big mega-impossible win or . . . suicide. You just get so tired you don't want to fight anymore. You get tired of struggling, and lying, and hiding, and hoping, and being disappointed, and cheating, and stealing, and doing other stupid, sleazy, selfish shit to the people you love, and hiding under that mountain of lies just waiting for the day when it all comes crashing down and you get arrested or evicted and then everybody knows.

Sometimes we could tell that someone we knew was going to do it. They would go awol from the GA meetings for the last couple of weeks, you would see them banging their last meager pennies at the casino for the last couple of weeks, they would be playing the really expensive games with the really high jackpots, the mega-impossible jackpots, and you would be praying, just praying, that they win. Come on, Lord, let him win. Of course, they would lose. Then they would disappear and we would hear at the next GA meeting that so-and-so couldn't take it anymore and shot himself. Slit her wrists. Jumped in front of traffic. Drank rat poison. But we knew already. We knew already. And there wasn't shit we could do about it because we were so close to making that same fateful decision. Every day eyeing that mega-impossible jackpot machine as we walked past it. The machine that never wins. The machine that would fix everything if it would just win.

Yeah, suicide--all kidding aside, this is one of the main reasons you should demand that any gambler you know and love seek help immediately for his/her addiction.

And here is the big lie I told in the book. Gambles don't go to each other's funerals; Gamblers play poker for their dead.

On the website Getting Past Gambling ( http://www.gettingpastgambling.com/ )there is a great explanation of why it happens. I will cut and paste the brief, though pertinent passage from that essay here.

"Gambling addiction has one of the highest suicide rates of all addictions and this is partially due to the nature of the consequences.

With most addictions, the addict can lose everything he had, his family, his job, his self-respect, he can take himself down to having nothing left, zero, zip, nada.

However, the gambling addict may have lost all of those things, but his aftermath doesn't stop merely at zero.

The gambler may have lost his family, job, self-respect AND may be thousands, tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt and the only way he knows of to get out of debt is........(insert drum roll) ....................to gamble and win the big one.

When the alcoholic quits drinking, he picks up the pieces and moves on, but the gambler may be faced with overwhelming debt that he cannot see a way out of when he quits gambling.

Don't despair, many gambling addicts make it through, quit gambling and move on with their lives, but as with any other addiction it can be a life time struggle both for the gambler and the people who love them."

Copyright 2007 All material remains the property of the author http://www.oagaa.org/html/who_is_this_person_.htm posted by LindaH @ 10:49 PM

Thanks,

Preston